but sweet kisses i've got to spare
by ProfessorSpork
Summary: A sequel to "sad and merry madness," continuing right where that work left off—a college AU in which Peggy and Steve aren't dating but they're not NOT dating, but they both also really want to date Angie, who's just trying to survive her first semester and make it to winter break. But also definitely really wants to date Peggy and Steve.
1. Chapter 1

A/N Just, as usual, enjoying myself.

* * *

The last SSR meeting of the semester is a weirdly competitive affair. Angie had figured people would be sad to say goodbye to each other, or maybe even be so happy to be almost done with classes that the whole thing would be a big party.

She had not pictured this.

"We did Midsummer three semesters ago, no one wants to see another Midsummer!"

"Oh, because everyone's _dying_ to see Timon of Athens?"

"Jim, Colleen, please!" Peggy finally cuts in sharply, and Angie puts a hand on her knee—holding back a laugh when she realizes that Steve pulled the same move on her other leg. (They've had the same positions on the couch ever since that first week: a Peggy sandwich. It's nice; Angie can pretend she's on the E Board and has power.) "Daniel hasn't even presented yet. Would you let him speak so we can vote?"

Morita grumbles, but Colleen, at least, has the good graces to look abashed.

"Thanks, Carter," Dan says, getting to his feet. "So I was thinking, nobody's done a history in club memory—"

"Because the histories are _boring,_ " Howard interjects, before Peggy silences him with a glare.

"—right, they are. And I got to wondering how we could jazz up a history and make it, y'know. Something worth seeing. So the play I'm proposing would actually be a master edit of all the Henry VIs and Richard III, focusing on a single character: Margaret of Anjou. I was thinking," Dan pauses, eyes flitting nervously to Peggy before looking away, "I was thinking we'd call it Bloody Margaret."

Well. Good to know he was thinking of casting in advance, too.

The room is immediately abuzz with excitement, hands going up all over the place to ask him questions about the project. _Bloody Margaret_ becomes the immediate frontrunner, just as much for the fact that he clearly wants Peggy in the lead as for the original thinking. Or at least, that's why Angie's voting for it.

"Alright, everyone, calm down," Peggy says after about fifteen minutes of thrilled babbling. "We have to get to the boring stuff. Daniel. I'm assuming you have a crew in place?"

"Sure, yeah. I've got Jim in the booth, Rose on costumes, and Yauch doing props."

"And your stage manager?"

"Oh!" Dan rubs his hand on his neck, looking sheepish. "I, uh. I thought you knew. That'd be Steve."

The look Peggy shoots to her right is positively murderous. Steve, never one to back down from a fight, squares his shoulders and hardly tries to melt into the couch at all.

Frankly, Angie's just impressed he managed to keep it from her.

(When they vote, support for _Bloody Margaret_ is nearly unanimous.)

* * *

When the meeting is over, Howard lingers to help clean up, which almost never happens. Angie's so astonished that she almost doesn't notice when Steve starts ushering Peggy out the door, babbling about how they'll be late and he has no ride and suddenly Angie's alone with Howard pushing coffee tables around.

"This some kind of set-up?" she asks, holding back laughter.

Howard grins. "Yes, but not for you. I've been meaning to talk to you about this, but you know what my schedule is like. Long story short: it's an SSR tradition to hold a second little gathering, after the cast party. One just to honor the director and SM—and the rest of the crew, but we're not the ones who get surprised—with special show-related presents. And also booze. We were hoping for the first night of finals; you'll still be on campus, right?"

"Yeah." If Angie had her way, she'd stay on campus for all of break. "So what's so secret about this secret party that you couldn't just text me about it?"

"Well you'll be in charge of Peggy's present, obviously."

Angie's mouth goes dry. "What?"

"Divide and conquer. I've got Jarvis, and Steve is handling venue."

"But—Colleen could—"

Howard shakes his head. "You ever see Colleen try and keep a secret longer than two days? She and Peggy _live_ together. No chance."

"Right," Angie mumbles, swallowing. "Okay. I'm in."

"Perfect. Now run along, before you miss your ride."

She flips him the bird on her way out.

By the time she catches up with Steve and Peggy again they're at the bus stop, breath steaming the frigid air, locked in a spirited debate about… something or other.

"—but Eleanor's not even a queen, you don't even see her after Part Two," Steve's saying. "Elizabeth Woodville gets to survive the plays, plus you have all the underlying tension about social mobility, _plus_ there's that scene in _Richard III_ where she and Margaret and Anne Neville get to—"

"Curse Richard together, yes, but Elizabeth is never quite Margaret's _equal_ ," Peggy replies. "Look, I did my term paper on Margaret of Anjou for my Shakespeare class last year—"

"Of course you did," Angie cuts in, flinging an arm around Peggy's shoulder.

For a second Peggy gets a little tense; then she just shifts slightly to make herself comfortable. "My point is that no one matches the depths of what Margaret's willing to do for power _except_ Eleanor, and queen or not, she's Margaret's equal more than anyone else. It's perfect—Angie, help me out."

"I agree with whoever buys me a cup of coffee, I'm working the late shift tonight," Angie says. "What are we talking about?"

"Who you should audition for in _Bloody Margaret_ ," Steve tells her as the bus arrives. "It's a shame Joan of Arc's never in a scene with Margaret, because—"

"As if Shakespeare's Francophobic _La Pucelle_ could ever match the real version," Peggy says scathingly as the bus pulls up. "Eleanor of Gloucester is the way to go, Angie. Trust me."

"Sure," Angie agrees, "But the biggest role I'd audition for next semester is going to be probably… Margaret's handmaiden, or something. Or maybe just Henry's decapitated head."

There's a brief lull as they all pile onto the same two-seater before Peggy and Steve both stare at her in unison. "What?"

Angie shrugs. "Transfer student, remember? I have to start making a name for myself in the actual drama department, or I'll never catch up. And even if I don't get cast in any of the shows, it's kind of an unspoken rule that I'll tech."

A beat. "Well," Peggy says, rallying. "Well, I suppose that's… reasonable."

"You'll still come to meetings, right?" Steve asks. "And rehearsals? I mean, not all of them, but… if you have the time?"

"Of course I will," Angie promises, and really, what else is she supposed to say when they've just spent ten minutes arguing over what role is worthy of her? And seeing them deflate simultaneously upon realizing that she wouldn't be around as much…

It's _nice_. She's never been missed like this. She's never been…

The bus jerks to a halt in front of Steve's apartment. "Hey," Angie says, blinking when Steve doesn't budge. "Your stop."

He shrugs. "Nah. Cup of coffee before your shift, remember?"

Peggy looks over them both and nods. "We'll keep you company."

* * *

Peggy and Jarvis have a tradition that goes way back to freshman year, even before Steve, when they were both hapless strangers in a strange land—an appointment with each other every Sunday at the L&L, where they do nothing except drink tea and… well.

Talk smack about the strangers around them.

(Now that Angie works there, sometimes she joins them and makes up these ludicrous stories that all have to do with some kind of baby animal, and Peggy always ends up going along with it, but that's neither here nor there, really.)

She's in the middle of humming in agreement to something Angie said about a very small goat when Jarvis leaps a foot into the air and _yelps_.

"—you blow a whistle and the cute little thing just falls over, like—Jarvis? What's wrong?" Angie asks.

"Oh, nothing at all," Jarvis replies, his voice at least an octave higher than usual. "Say. Say, isn't that Colleen?"

Peggy squints at where he's pointing. "Looks like. Who's with her?"

"Anna Heygi," Jarvis supplies immediately, before leaning very casually against the table. "Or—or, I believe so."

Beside her, Angie stifles a giggle. "Okay then. Jarvis?"

"Hm?"

"Might wanna get that elbow of yours out of the butter dish before your crush comes and joins us."

"She isn't my—that is—"

"Colleen!" Peggy calls, waving her roommate over.

"I am not _dressed properly_ ," Jarvis has time to hiss before Colleen waves back, pulling her friend along.

"You're in a three-piece suit on a Sunday morning, how dressed do you have to be?" Peggy asks, before she sees the pile of posters Colleen seems to be holding. "Oh, Bloody _Nora_."

"Hello to you too," Colleen tells her, throwing herself down on the seat next to Angie. "You guys know Anna? Anna, Peggy, Angie, Jarvis."

"Nice to meet you," Peggy and Angie chorus, before Jarvis stands up and actually _bows_.

"Miss Heygi."

Anna laughs. "Edwin. I _did_ tell you to call me Anna, didn't I?"

 _Edwin?_ Peggy mouths to Angie, who mouths back, _Nora?_

Jarvis clears his throat, swallows, and then clears it again for good measure. "You did," he allows, looking pained and distinctly pink around the ears.

"What're you guys up to? Brunch?" Colleen asks.

"Just Peggy and Mr. Fancy here," Angie says, getting up. "You're probably my cue to get back to work—Anna, go ahead and take my seat. You guys want anything?"

"Oh, we're not staying. Just here to hang posters for our show." Colleen waves the stack of cardboard under her arm for good measure.

"Show?" Angie asks, pointedly ignoring Peggy's throat-cutting gesticulations and desperate looks made behind Colleen' turned head.

"Our a cappella concert," Anna supplies. "Last Cat's Meow show of the semester. We can count on you all to be there, right?"

"Of course!" Jarvis says, voice strangled but certain, before anyone can get a word in edgewise. "Wouldn't miss it."

"That'd be a first," Colleen says, smirking at Peggy. "Tickets are five bucks at the door, but only three if you get them at our table in the student center at lunch this week."

"Then we shall buy them at the door, to ensure your maximum profit," Jarvis promises.

Anna smiles. "You're so sweet! We'll put some aside for you; wouldn't want to sell out and have you miss it."

"No," Peggy agrees through her teeth. "That would be terrible."

* * *

A week later, Angie's cursing her high heels as she stumbles into the lobby of the concert hall, a good five minutes late. Peggy and Steve are already there, waiting for her, and she has to fight down a laugh as she watches the two of them not _pace_ so much as attack the marble floor in unison. Really, at this point she doesn't even want to know what their beef with a cappella is; just watching their dislike in action is enough entertainment on its own.

She makes her way to them and has to fight down _another_ laugh as they instantly straighten up at the sight of her; Peggy even smooths the front of her dress. "You guys ready?"

They both stare at her like they're attending a public execution, and then nod. Very slowly.

"Okay! So let's…" She moves to actually go into the auditorium before she realizes that Steve and Peggy haven't budged. "Or not?"

"My tie's crooked," Steve mutters, fiddling with it so it gets even _more_ crooked until Peggy huffs and straightens it for him.

There's another pause where Steve and Peggy just kind of glare gloomily at the closed doors while Angie stares at _them,_ tapping her feet.

Finally, Steve opens his mouth. "I cannot _believe_ ," he says to Peggy, "That you agreed to this—"

"For the last time," Peggy interrupts, "I did no such thing. It was all this one—" she points at Angie, "goading on Jarvis' bloody ideas until I'm freezing my bloody knockers off because I'm in formal wear for an _a cappella concert_ in the middle of bloody winter—"

"You know that normal people don't go all semi-formal for a cappella concerts, right?" Steve says to Angie now. "We're gonna look stupid. We're gonna look stupid, for a cappella people."

"You're looking awesome," Angie corrects, "Because we're here to support Colleen, who is our friend, and to support Jarvis, who is like, hopeless around Anna. He just wants us to look _nice_ , now come on."

She glares at the both of them until Peggy heaves a great sigh. "Fine," she says, staring at the ceiling. Steve looks betrayed.

"Can't believe I'm sweating in polyester for punk ass pop jockeys," he mutters.

Peggy scoffs. " _Sweating._ I would love to be sweating!" She starts grumbling under her breath about unfair fashion standards and how men have things easy, but is interrupted by Steve shrugging his suit jacket off and shoving it in her face.

"There. Now we both look stupid," he says.

"Good thinking, Steve," Angie says, even as she takes them both by the shoulders—ready to physically push them through the doors if she has to. "Can't let those knockers go unprotected."

And really, the concert is adorable. Colleen sings _Call Me Maybe_ , and Anna does the ridiculous guitar solo from _I Believe In A Thing Called Love_ with just her voice, and every song has its own cute little dance number. Angie doesn't know what Steve and Peggy are so pressed about, but they don't let up—it's like going to a concert with the two old guys in the balcony from The Muppet Show.

She has the time of her life.

* * *

The last day of classes feels more like a whimper than a bang, and finds almost everyone hanging out in the dining hall talking about their plans for winter break instead of studying for finals. Howard's just finished up a ridiculous story about what happened _last_ winter break when he flew out to join his parents in Majorca when Colleen turns to Angie and asks, "What about you, Ange?"

Angie groans. "I haven't even bought a plane ticket yet; my parents are gonna kill me."

"What are you waiting for?" Peggy asks, brow knitting in a frown.

"I don't know. A reason not to go? I have to be back in January for intersession anyway. It just seems like a waste of money. I'd stay here if I could, but they close the dorms down."

"Wait, you're taking a J-term class?" Steve interrupts. "Why didn't you say anything? I am, too. I failed out of Figure Drawing freshman year because I had too many absences, and I figured now was the best time to retake it, since Mom's away."

"Jeez, even for Christmas?" Angie knew, in the back of her mind, that Steve's mom started working for Doctors Without Borders once he moved out, but she'd still kind of assumed they let you come home for the holidays.

Steve shrugs. "I was gonna go back to Brooklyn and just crash at Casa Barnes, but—if it would help you out, you could stay with me at the apartment."

Bucky gasps. "You're skipping out on latke flipping duty _and_ offering up my bed in the same breath? What did I do to earn this knife in the back?"

"Steve, no," Angie protests, heart pounding. "I couldn't ask you to—"

"It'll be fun," he says, gently but firmly shutting down her rebuttal. He grins. "We'll take my dad's Invisibility Cloak out for a spin and play wizard chess."

The unexpected Harry Potter reference naturally gets all eyes on Peggy as she—probably for the millionth time—fields questions about what King's Cross Station is like and whether she really says _Happy Christmas._ Angie takes a breath, glad for the distraction until her phone buzzes in her pocket.

It's a text from Steve: **If you want to talk about the whole not wanting to go home thing, I'm all ears. Or all my good ear, anyway. Everything ok?**

She shoots him a smile in lieu of a response, which he seems to accept. And honestly, it's not like there's some big dramatic story as to why she'd rather not be in Ohio for Christmas. Her family is fine.

It's just that she transferred for a reason. That's all.

* * *

"It worries me, when she says things like that," Peggy says later, when it's just her and Steve. He'd intended to walk her and Colleen back to their suite before heading out, but the cold air had done such a number on his lungs that they'd had to stop halfway across campus and duck into the Student Center. Colleen had a test first thing Monday, so she decided to peel off, but—to be honest, he hadn't tried hard to get her to stay with them. "What does she have to be afraid of?"

Steve twists the styrofoam cup of tea in his hands, watching it steam the air. "I don't think it's fear, necessarily. She talked about it a bit, back when she, uh—at SHIELD meetings. She came out to her mom and it didn't go great. _You'll grow out of it,_ that kind of stuff. So she never tried with anyone else. I think some of her brothers know. But it's…"

"Hardly comfortable," Peggy finishes.

"Right."

"But you're certain they're not… She's never said…?"

"I've never gotten that impression. And—she would tell us." Probably. He thinks. Private as Angie can be sometimes, she wouldn't hide it from them if something were really wrong.

Peggy exhales slowly, and Steve can literally see it as some of the tension leaves her shoulders. "Well. Good."

Steve smirks. "You wanna invite her to study with us tomorrow night; keep an eye on her?"

"…I think that would be best."

Peggy makes the most amazing indignant faces when he laughs at her.

* * *

"In contrast to critics who claim that _Romeo and Juliet_ belongs more in the realm of emotional melodrama than tragedy, Ruth Nevo states—states…"

Peggy groans and flings her notebook across the room. Steve rolls his eyes. "Peg."

"I'm not moving," she mutters, burrowing deeper into the side of her couch. "Ruth Nevo is stupid, and Romeo and Juliet are both—really _bloody_ stupid, and I'm not moving because I am _tired_."

"Can't blame them, remember?" Steve says, nudging her. "Tragedy of happenstance, _that's_ what Nevo states."

When she turns to look, he's giving her a lopsided grin that makes _something_ flutter low in her stomach, something that can't be butterflies, and really—this crush thing is very crap.

(It isn't, it's just finals week and she doesn't have _time_.)

She quashes down whatever that something is by giving Steve what she _thinks_ is probably a passable impression of Angie's puppy dog face. "Steve, darling."

He stares flatly at her. "No."

"You don't need to stand up," Peggy tries. "You can just—roll towards it. I'd do it myself but you're in the way, and—it'd _hurt_."

Steve's still shaking his head, the bastard. "I don't want to move any more than you do. Angie'll be here any minute, she can grab your notebook on her way in."

Peggy blows an errant strand of hair from her eyes. "I sup- _pose_. In the mean time…" She looks at Steve expectantly.

He sighs and tosses his notebook at her. "Help me go over _Oleanna_?"

" _Oleanna_ is asinine," Peggy mumbles, flipping idly through his notebook. She's always found Steve's notes fascinating and beautiful—jumbled words and inverted letters scrawled with a kind of haphazard confidence spiraling into doodles, sketches.

Steve nudges her again. "So is _Romeo and Juliet_ , apparently."

"No, _Romeo and Juliet_ is stupid," Peggy corrects, "It's a play of terrible circumstance that leads to tragedy. _Oleanna_ is—is…"

Her hand freezes over the last page of Steve's notes on _Romeo and Juliet_ ; it's a small segment on MacKenzie, and then a full page drawing of… her.

Or—not, _her_ , precisely; the woman on the page looks a few years older, her face more mature and expression more sure than Peggy can ever imagine herself to be, but everything else she recognizes as her own.

On the bottom right corner Steve had written, with uncharacteristic care: _she doth teach the torches to burn bright_.

"Well, don't keep me hanging like that," Steve says, " _Oleanna_ is…?"

Peggy closes his notebook. "Steve," she says, feeling the waver in her voice travel _down_ before she's grabbing the front of his shirt and pulling him closer to her.

When she daydreams about kissing Steve (embarrassingly often, and quite vividly), Peggy always imagines fireworks, tasting some kind of sting; it's probably terribly unoriginal, but honestly, he was born on their Independence Day. Really kissing Steve—and, some far off part of Peggy's mind notes, she is _really_ kissing Steve—feels rather different: oddly quiet, and almost _obvious_. Like certainty.

What passes for his five o'clock shadow tickles, and he tastes like the menthol from his medicated lip balm, along with some dessert from the cafeteria. Rhubarb pie, she thinks.

Steve keeps his eyes closed for a moment after they break apart, lets out a long, slow breath. "Oh," he says softly.

Peggy opens her mouth to say something clever, something like _this is what Oleanna is not_ , but then from the doorway she hears, even softer than Steve: "Oh."

They both turn. "Angie," Steve says. For there she is.

For a moment Angie is quiet and still, regarding them in wide-eyed shock. "The door was open, so I…" She clears her throat. "God _damn_ it."

Peggy's heart drops into her stomach. "Angie—"

"Now I owe Howard twenty bucks!"

"Hold on," Peggy says, feeling as though she's been quite suddenly thrust into a play without ever being shown a script. "There was a betting pool about me and Steve?"

"You didn't know about the betting pool?" Steve asks, looking almost impressed.

"No!" Then—"You _did?_ "

"Well yeah. They… weren't exactly subtle about it."

"Peggy," Angie interjects, "why is your notebook on the floor?"

"I threw it. It angered me."

"Do you want it back, or…?"

Peggy sighs. "Yes, please."

Angie carries the notebook over and then settles herself on the floor in front of the couch, using the coffee table as a desk. She's close enough that Peggy could run her fingers through her hair, if she wanted, which is a ridiculous thought to be having two minutes after kissing Steve for the first time. Unsure if she should be relieved Angie's not upset or upset that Angie's not jealous, Peggy resigns herself to Ruth Nevo and starts studying anew.

"You never finished telling me what _Oleanna_ is," Steve points out after a long moment of silence.

" _Oleanna_ is disgusting," Angie says from her spot on the floor.

Peggy high fives her.

* * *

He and Peggy exchange at least five sneaky panicked glances at each other during their study session, but really, Steve doesn't understand why Peggy's so worried when _he's_ the one who has to leave at some point, with Angie.

Angie, who's been kind of quiet all night, jokes about the betting pool aside, and—okay, maybe they don't _have_ to leave together? Maybe they can just kind of stagger their departures to avoid any… awkward…

He's being an idiot. This is Angie they're talking about—things have never been awkward with her. That's the whole miracle of her; she takes these situations and somehow just makes them… softer. Easier to swallow. In fact, he doubts Peggy would have even kissed him tonight if it hadn't been for Angie. They're all so much closer now, so much braver than they'd been. He doesn't know how she managed it. It was never any secret, how he felt, but he'd have let Peggy dance around it for years. Then here Angie comes, making them both feel…

Making them both feel…

 _Oh._

Steve slams his notebook closed. (It's a little too ratty and worn down to make an impressive noise, but still.) "Think I'm done for the night. Angie? Wanna head out?"

Angie looks a little startled, but shrugs. "Sure."

Behind her, Peggy shoots him a look that closely resembles absolute horror. Steve tries to smile reassuringly back, tries to convey _don't worry, I've got this_ , but from Peggy's mute response he thinks it might have looked more like he was about to throw up.

"Okay then," he says, and then winces. _Way_ too loud. "Good night, Peggy."

Angie choruses him, and after a little pause Peggy smiles at the two of them. "Night, you two. Get back safe."

The bus stop is completely deserted, and Angie's gone completely quiet now, so Steve clenches his jaw. Nothing to it, then. He'll just… say his piece.

"Thanks for waiting with me."

She smiles a little. "Well, I gotta admit—it's not completely selfless. I'm hoping he'll let me off down campus."

He nods. God, this is excruciating. He should just rip the band-aid off.

"Nice night," he says, and then waves lamely at the sky. He's the _worst_ at this, the absolute worst—

Angie spares him a look. "Yeah. Cold."

"I'm sorry," he blurts out, before he can stop himself.

And now Angie looks completely lost. "What?"

"That Peggy kissed—well, I'm not sorry that she kissed me, because it was really great, but I'm sorry that you had to. Um. See that? Because I know that you—and Peggy—and me too, so I'm—sorry that we kissed without really _talking_ about what's been going on, with the three of us—"

" _Steve_ ," the look of concern on Angie's face is almost Bucky-like. "Breathe, and then words. Maybe in an understandable order, this time."

He's not sure he can do that, and still explain. He tries a different tactic. "Are you sad?"

"What?" Angie laughs, and she's staring at him like he's completely lost it.

"I mean, aren't you? That we—that you found—"

"Oh, Steve, no. I'm… I could never. You guys are my best friends in the world. You wanna hear sad, I can tell you sad. One time, my cousin Ralphie—"

"Angie," he says, barely a whisper, but her jaw snaps shut all the same. "I'm trying to tell you that it would be okay, if you were. I mean. Not that—I don't _want_ you to be sad, obviously. But you'd have reason to be. It's not all in your head."

Angie sniffles, then tugs her scarf up higher around her neck, like it was the cold that did it. "Why are you saying this? Please—please don't. Okay? I don't want to make trouble, I just want you guys to be happy, I…"

Unable to stop himself, Steve surges forward, hand reaching for her as he presses his lips to her forehead; he can hear the way her breath hitches. He pulls away before he lets himself get any ideas, gently rucking up Angie's scarf once more as he does. " _You_ make us happy."

She looks near tears. "I have a three hour Econ exam tomorrow morning. You're doing this _now?_ "

"I didn't want to let this night end without saying something. You've gotta know. We didn't… no one's _chosen…_ I'm sorry, I'm fucking this all up."

"What you're talking about," she says, after taking a deep breath, "It's not—people don't do that."

"Forget people. I'm talking about us." In the distance, Steve can see the headlights of the bus rounding the corner. He curses to himself; he needs more time.

"Well, it's a… Jesus. It's a very sweet offer, Steve, but until I'm hearing it from both of you you'll forgive me if I can't exactly take it seriously."

"Angie," he starts, but the bus is coming to a stop and she's turning away from him, "Hey, come on, wait. Weren't you going to try and bum a ride? Like you said—it's cold out."

She shrugs. "Like you said—it's a nice night. I think I could use the walk."

The bus driver's glaring at him. "Kid, don't make me hold the door open. Come if you're coming."

"We're okay, right?" Steve asks instead, insistently. He'll never forgive himself if he's ruined this by bringing it up right now.

Angie gives him a ghost of a smile, but it pulls at her eyes like she means it. "We're always okay, Steve. G'night."

"Night," he mutters back as he steps onto the bus.

* * *

"Jeez, pal, what happened to you?"

Angie is startled out of her reverie by Howard's voice in her ear, her fork clattering to her plate. She barely slept at all the night before—which did her no favors on her final. The whole morning has been a blur. All she'd wanted to do was eat some lunch in peace and then hide in her room for the foreseeable future, but of course that's too much to ask. "Econ happened to me," she says, hoping he'll accept it. It's not a _lie,_ per se. It's just not the whole truth either.

"Nah, I don't think so. The circles under your eyes and the air of defeat? Sure, that's Econ. But I've never heard of Econ making anyone _sad_."

"Of course you haven't, Howard, you're rich."

"You're avoiding the question."

She blows her hair out of her eyes. "I am not sad."

Howard throws himself into the chair across from her, raising his eyebrow.

"Okay, I might be a little sad."

"Boyfriend trouble?"

Angie immediately clamps her mouth shut.

Howard lets out a low whistle. "Oookay then. _Girlfriend_ trouble?"

She throws her napkin at him. "Can't you go bother some other co-ed? One who actually finds you charming, maybe?"

"So it's both?" This time Angie throws her fork at him, but he just snatches it out of the air. "Plannin' to eat salad with your fingers?"

"Be worth it if it got you to leave me alone," Angie mutters.

"Fine, fine, I won't pry," he says, and then when she glares, "…anymore than I already have. I just hope this drama isn't gonna make it hard on you at the party, because—"

Angie slaps a hand to her forehead. "The party! I completely forgot."

Howard stares at her. "Forgot the party? As in the party today? As in, forgot the present that I said you were in charge of like a _month_ ago?"

She lets out a laugh that isn't panicked at all, nope. "It was like two weeks ago, and don't get your Prada boxers in a twist, Howard—of course I have her present already. I do!" she insists, at his skeptical look. "In—in fact I can promise you that it's an _amazing_ present—basically unbeatable!"

"I don't wear Prada's boxers, that's just douchey," Howard corrects. "And whatever this 'unbeatable' present is, I hope it's wrapped already, because—oh, hey! Peg, Jarvis! You guys all set?"

"All _set_?" She hisses at Howard as Peggy and Jarvis make their way to her table, Peggy visibly lagging a little behind. "You just decided to meet up here?"

"It's a dining hall, Ange. Not like I was expecting you to mope around here when I made plans with them two weeks ago, like a responsible friend—"

"I _am_ a responsible friend!" she says, so loudly everyone in the dining hall turns around to stare at her. "My present's gonna knock your socks off, Howard Stark, and you'll regret you ever doubted me—"

"Erm," Jarvis says, raising his hand a little. "Are we… interrupting?"

Howard immediately jumps up. "Nope! Just debating the finer points of economics. Let's go, Jarvis."

Angie watches as he all but drags Jarvis ahead, leaving her with…

"Hi," she and Peggy both say at the same time.

Peggy clears her throat. "How—how was the exam?"

"Oh, it was…" she's not looking at Peggy because she really needs to finish this salad. "You know, it was economic."

"I… see. Well, I should…" Peggy gestures vaguely at where Howard's waiting with Jarvis—still within earshot, the jackass.

"Yeah! Have fun. Wish I could come, but you know, I have…" Angie mirrors Peggy's vague gesture. "Stuff. Exams."

Peggy nods, and then musters up a tiny smile. "Good luck?"

"I'm not the one going out for drinks with Howard," Angie points out, but she's smiling back anyway—or at least, until Peggy turns to join Howard and Jarvis.

Then she's dumping her salad into the trash and sprinting out of the dining hall. _Knock your socks off_ and _unbeatable_ , right? She can probably find something like that in the next couple hours.

Hopefully.

* * *

"Two Patrons," Howard tells the bartender when they arrive at his "favorite" bar in town; it looks overpriced yet simultaneously sleazy, so Peggy's inclined to believe him. "Jarvis, Miller Lite for you?"

Jarvis grimaces. "Perhaps a screwdriver for the occasion. We're celebrating the end of term, aren't we?"

"Attaboy."

"We're doing shots?" Peggy asks incredulously, "In the middle of the day?"

"Live a little," Howard tells her. Then he lowers his voice. "After all, this might be the last time you get to use the fake I gave you."

"You say that like it's some great tragedy," Peggy replies as the bartender hands back said fake ID. She eyes her picture with disdain. "It's been three years and I still fail to comprehend why it was necessary for me to dress up in a disastrous nurse costume to get my photo taken for this."

"Artistic integrity," Howard says airily. "And come on, don't pretend you're not going to miss being Betty Carver. Cheers!"

"I'm not _pretending_ ," Peggy grumbles, but she throws back the shot of tequila all the same.

Next to them, Jarvis takes a very delicate sip of his drink.

* * *

"…nor no man ever loved." Jarvis finishes with a flourish, then drains the last of his screwdriver. "Well? How was that?"

Peggy and Howard exchange a glance with each other. "That's… fantastic, Jarvis," Peggy tries, "Except, um. Have you considered that maybe the reason this... _original_ sonnet sprung so quickly into your mind, fully-formed—"

He beams at her. "Miraculous, wasn't it?"

"—is that it was actually written by someone else?"

"What?" Jarvis stares, and then turns to Howard to stare some more. "What?"

"Shakespeare, pal," Howard says. "Sonnet 116?"

"But it's very impressive, that you can recite all of it," Peggy quickly says. Jarvis looks crestfallen. "I'm sure Anna would be very pleased."

"No, I—that won't do. I have to… excuse me, bartender? Do you have any more napkins?" He digs out the fountain pen from his pocket again. "Back to the drawing room. What rhymes with 'lady?'"

"Baby," Howard instantly supplies. Peggy groans, beckoning the bartender over for another drink.

* * *

"I kissed Steve," Peggy announces apropos of nothing, sometime around shot five. Or maybe four? She finds that she doesn't particularly care, which probably means five. At least five.

"I _hate_ you, you lucky bastard," Howard blurts out, face turning an impressive purple in the span of half a second. "Wait. Is that why—"

Jarvis chooses that moment to break into an amazingly off-key rendition of Jason Mraz's "Dear Anna."

* * *

Peggy squints at the line of shot glasses in front of her. She's trying to count how many drinks she's already tossed down, but for some reasons the shot glasses aren't staying put for long enough.

Somewhere in the now very poor-lit part of her brain, she wonders if this is some kind of— _mathematical impossibility_ , that glasses could stroll around the bar of their own accord. Then she shrugs. She's not a science major.

Though, speaking of: "Howard," she says, and absolutely does not drag out any syllable of his name, "How many have we had?"

Howard looks up from where he's trying to console a distraught Jarvis, who declared five minutes ago that he was "doomed by love." "One for each year we've lived. _Obviously_."

"That's…" she frowns. "That's _too many_."

He pats her arm. "We split it, remember? Shared the load."

Another shot slides towards her. "Oh, good," Peggy says, picking it up and throwing it down. Then she winces at the sickly sweet taste. "This is schnapps."

"We promised to lay off on hard stuff after shot seven," Howard reminds her, but Peggy's not listening anymore.

" _Angie_ likes schnapps," she informs Howard. It seems like pertinent information.

"Sad Angie?"

"No," then she frowns again. What? "Angie's not _sad_."

"Is too. She told me."

"Did not."

"Did so!"

" _Didn't,_ " Peggy says, trying to inject as much authority as possible into her tone. "I'm _Bloody Margaret_ , I'm right."

"Not until next semester," Howard points out. "Anyway, why do you think you're even here avoiding your other friends? You kissed Steve, and now Angie's sad. Granted, I'm sad too, but—"

"She _isn't_ , I asked Steve and he said she said she wasn't," Peggy says, frowning at the unexpected tongue twister. "He said she sai—yes. That's right." She starts digging through her purse. "I'm calling her."

Howard laughs. "You're gonna drunk-dial your sort-of-maybe girlfriend because you kissed your sort-of-maybe boyfriend? Good call."

She swats him in the arm. "You hush. It's ringing. Angie? Angie, I'm sorry. I kissed Steve and then you were there and I wasn't _planning_ on you being there, I wasn't planning on you at all and really, it's very unfair that Steve got to act with you and I'll have to wait for a whole semester if I'm lucky and I'm sorry that you're upset and that's probably why you're not here with me, and—"

"Peggy," Angie interrupts, and then there's a little crackle over the phone that sounds like laughter. "Peggy, what are you talking about?"

"Howard—Howard said…" Peggy glances over, where Howard has a death-grip on the bar to keep himself from keeling over because he's laughing so hard. "He said you told him you were _sad_."

Angie's definitely laughing now. " _He_ did, huh."

"I am going to kill him," Peggy promises. "There's—there's a wooden spatula hanging behind the bar that looks like an appro—appropr—it looks like a good murder weapon. You're very sure? That you're not sad?"

"I'm not," Angie says, "I was just—surprised. But not sad, English, not for the two of you."

"Good. Howard Stark is—is the most _useless_ bisexual inventor that's ever been—invented."

"Pretty small field, Peg. Hey, I don't suppose you can tell me what bar you're at, can you?"

" _And_ he's a terrible friend," Peggy continues. "And I—I meant to kiss the both of you, at the same time, but that seemed like it would be physically _uncomfortable_ , or maybe impossible even—like, when two of my shot glasses wandered off by themselves earlier?"

"English," Angie says, and then sighs, and then Peggy _thinks_ there are whispers coming from Angie's end. "Just—um, stay on the phone, okay? Bucky and I are coming to get you."

* * *

Angie feels her shoulders slump a little in relief when she finally spots Howard, Peggy and Jarvis in what's probably the most expensive bar in their whole town. She hadn't been _too_ worried, but given what Peggy's said about Dottie…

"There they are," she tells Bucky, pointing.

Bucky grunts. "Lucky number seven. Knowing Howard, we shoulda come here first."

"Just listen to me," the subject in question slurs into his phone, "I have thought about this, Steve. A lot. A lot! You 'n me. There's a slick—a comfortable looking pool table right in this corner… you can pretend I'm Peggy, we have the same build—"

"You do not," Bucky says, intervening. "Party's over, kids—you're coming with me."

Howard brightens. "To your place?"

"You're taking Jarvis to _your_ place, you've done enough for today." He points at Peggy, who's slumped over her stool, still shaking with suppressed laughter. "Go get Lady Drunktown up, Angie. I'll handle these two clowns."

At this, Peggy straightens up. "James," she says, "James. We've only had _one_ drink. We are perfectly capable of making our own decisions."

Her attempt to sound perfectly sober is somewhat ruined by the fact that it's followed by her practically sliding off her stool.

Angie grabs Peggy's shoulder. "Whoa there, English—you don't want your ass on that floor, who knows what else has been on it?"

"This floor is perfectly clean," Peggy grumps, before seeing Angie's face and brightening. "Angie!"

Angie grins back. "Right in one."

"Angie's here," Peggy announces to the room at large, before being reluctantly dragged towards Bucky's car.

* * *

They drop Howard and Jarvis off at Howard's apartment with orders to shower, sober up, and report back in two hours, and then it's a straight shot back to Bucky and Steve's place with Peggy asleep on Angie's shoulder.

(Which: pretty nice, even though Peggy had gone and gotten herself passed out drunk in the middle of the afternoon.)

"I got her," she tells Bucky, who just nods and heads into the house—to monitor the progress on the streamers, probably.

For a minute she just… lets herself enjoy the privacy, before aiming a nice hard poke into Peggy's side. "Come on, up you get."

To her credit, Peggy makes it out of the car and three steps towards the apartment before plopping onto the snow covered grass. "I need one minute to rest."

Angie chuckles before kneeling down next to her. "Alright, one minute."

"…It's cold."

"That's because you're sitting on ice, hon."

Peggy looks up blearily at her, and then smiles. "When we kiss," she whispers, "It's going to be _brilliant_."

Angie feels herself flush, because Peggy's awful close to her right now and if she just leans forward a little more Angie could—

Peggy does lean forward, a _lot_ more—which is to say, she sags completely into Angie.

"Peg?" No response. "Aw, hell. Bucky? I changed my mind."

* * *

They help Peggy into Steve's old pajamas and dump her on the Illnest that Angie suspects might never _stop_ being a Illnest, what with how often they have to use it. Steve looks questioningly at Angie before settling himself next to Peggy, and Angie nods and feels her lips twist into a weird grimace, because she'd been telling the truth to Peggy, she's not upset about their kiss, but—

Well, it's like Steve said. It'd be nice to have a conversation about… whatever's going on with all three of them, soon. She thinks she might be ready.

In the meantime, she follows Bucky into the bathroom as he hunts for Advil. "She'll be fine," he tells her, maybe feeling her mood. "Nothing my couch-nest hasn't been able to solve yet."

Angie hums an assent. "Greatest invention known to man."

"Yeah." He grins. "Steve and I used to do all the time as kids, just push two couches together, even when we were—uh, sleeping together—it felt right, to do it there instead of on an actual big bed."

His smile fades and he busies himself with the medicine cabinet again. Angie watches him. "You don't talk about him."

Bucky snorts. "Who, Steve? 'Course I do. Pint-sized brat would probably die of an asthma attack if I didn't talk about his inhaler with every random guy I met on the street."

"Yeah, but you don't really… you've been friends forever. Hell, you dated forever, and mostly you talk about him like he's… some kind of ward of yours. Like you gotta constantly take care of him, and that's all."

"He _does_ need taking care of, doesn't he?" Bucky shoots back. Then he sighs. "And being his—caretaker or whatever, and being his best friend, and being his boyfriend, it all felt the same anyway. Not much to talk about."

He strides out of the bathroom again before she can ask if that's why he broke it off with Steve. "We're out of Advil—I'll go get some."

Angie watches him go before she heads back to the Illnest. "Got room for one more?"

Steve's head shoots up. "Yeah, of course."

Peggy grumbles a little as Angie slots into her right. Then she opens her eyes, and sees their decorations. "There's balloons," she tells them, blinking sleepily.

"For your party," Steve says, "It was supposed to be a surprise."

"I'm surprised," Peggy mumbles, before burrowing deeper into Angie's side. "You know," she says after a long moment, "You never did give me a straight answer about your exam."

Angie laughs. "Of course that's the first coherent sentence you get out all day."

Peggy, undeterred, headbutts Angie gently on the shoulder in response. She seems to regret the decision, however, eyes screwing shut as she whimpers, "Nnngh, spinny."

"That's what you get. And—it went kind of shitty, to be honest."

Steve makes a worried noise. "What? Why? You studied your ass off."

"Yeah, well. I found myself distracted for some reason."

He has the good graces to look abashed. "Shit, Ange, I'm sorry."

"Why are you sorry?" Peggy asks, then, belatedly, reads the feeling in the room. She turns back to Angie. "Why is he sorry? When did—what did he say to you?"

"Last night, waiting for the bus. Same kind'a stuff you said out on the lawn."

Steve sits up. "The lawn? What'd she say on the lawn?"

"Oh my god," Angie groans, turning over and burying her head under the pillows. It's like the world's most agonizing recital of _Who's On First?_ , only about threesomes. Or something.

"Peg, I told you we talked," Steve says.

"You told me she wasn't sad. You _lied._ "

"I did not lie! Angie, tell her what you told me."

Angie just groans more into the cushions.

Peggy rubs Angie on the back in a way that would probably be soothing if she were sober enough to be coordinated. "We've upset you," she concludes carefully.

"I'm not _upset,_ I'm just… you two really do a number on me, y'know?"

"Maybe we should talk about this later," Steve suggests. "When all parties are, y'know. Fully present."

"Was that directed at me?" Peggy demands, outraged. "I may have had a few drinks, but I am fully capable of—I have every ability to—to, er…" She frowns, searching for the right word. "Advocate," she finally says.

"Advocate for what?"

Peggy looks chastened. "I've forgotten what we're talking about."

* * *

Luckily, Peggy manages to sober up a little by the time their guests arrive—helped along by copious amounts of water and Bucky's newly-bought painkillers.

It's a little awkward, at first, seeing as both guests of honor and the self-appointed MC (Howard, of course), pre-gamed so enthusiastically, but it doesn't take long for the other SSR kids to start to catch up. Even Steve has a solo cup of some concoction Howard calls "the Serum" in hand, but Angie's decided to stick with soda for the night. _Someone's_ got to keep a clear head.

Besides, Peggy's present—currently burning a hole in Angie's back pocket, where she keeps checking to make sure it hasn't fallen out—is already playing with her mind. It's another hour before Howard stands up on the coffee table and announces it's time for gifts. (Bucky promptly grabs him by the waist and lifts him off.)

"For Edwin Jarvis, our illustrious director," he announces with a flourish, "A mug covered in Shakespearean insults!"

"Meticulously selected from our campus bookstore, I'm sure," Jarvis mumbles. He scans the mug. "Ah, yes—'I do desire we may be better strangers.'"

"And for Margaret Carter, our tireless stage manager," Howard says, taking no notice of Jarvis' less-than-enthusiastic response, "Angie?"

"Angie is my present?" Peggy blurts, and Angie's so flustered she drops her hopefully-unbeatable offering as she holds it up to the light.

Olivia's ring spins gently on the hardwood floor for several seconds, _rattle-rattle-rattle-rattle-drop_. Angie swears it's the only thing anyone can hear.

The line comes to her lips before she can stop it: "If it be worth stooping for, there it lies in your eye," she recites. Part of her is almost impressed that after cramming her brain full of Econ, she can still remember Malvolio's part just as well as her own. The rest of her is terrified of how Peggy might react.

Thankfully, Peggy _does_ move to pick the ring up. "You—you took this out of the prop box?"

"I know, we'll lose our deposit if not everything is returned. I'll pay for it, I promise. I just—"

Angie can't finish her sentence, because Peggy's hugging her so tightly the air has been quite thoroughly removed from her lungs.


	2. Chapter 2

They manage to go the rest of finals without having Steve's promised conversation. Angie probably should have seen it coming—between the papers and exams, packing up for break, and having to endure the same conversation with her mother not once, not twice, but _five times_ about why it made more sense for her not to come home—who had the time for talks about feelings?

Still, though. Walking off campus knowing that she's essentially moving in with Steve for the immediate future puts a pleasant knot in Angie's stomach.

"Jeez," Bucky laughs when she walks into the apartment laden with two duffle bags, her backpack, and a rolling suitcase, "you sure you brought enough stuff?"

Angie ignores his tone, letting her baggage fall to the floor with a relieved groan. "They're locking up the dorms until J-term starts; I didn't want to get two weeks into break and then realize I forgot something."

"Somehow that doesn't seem likely."

"Aw, leave her alone, Buck," Steve says from his spot by the window, where he's sketching.

"Girl's sleeping in my bed for two months, I feel I'm entitled to some ribbing."

"Girl?" Angie repeats in a faux-offended gasp. "Is that all I am to you?"

Steve interrupts before Bucky can respond. "If he were really mad, he'd call you _shiksa._ "

"I still might," Bucky grumbles. Angie moves to stash her stuff in Bucky's room, but their conversation follows her down the hall: "Years of latke training, down the drain. Who's supposed to flip the latkes now, Steve? _Becca?_ Becca is on batter duty, you know that."

"Somehow I think the Barnes family Hanukkah party will survive without its token goy for one year. You only ever put me on flipping duty to get me out of the way."

"No, we put you on flipping duty because if there's one thing an Irishman can do at a Jewish holiday, it's mind the potatoes."

"That's racist."

"No, it's not."

"Fine. It's culturally insensitive."

"Jesus Christ," Angie chuckles as she re-enters the living room. "It's like living with the Gilmore Girls or something."

Steve and Bucky look at her, then at each other.

" _IcallLorelai!_ " they declare in tandem, then, " _What?_ " followed by, " _Youcan't!_ "

Angie goes back into the bedroom.

* * *

Peggy is quiet on the drive to the airport the next morning. Granted, they're all quiet—the sun hasn't even come up yet, because Peggy had to get a 7 am flight, and they're exhausted—but when Peggy suggested they didn't _all_ have to miss out on sleep and see her off, they'd given her such offended looks she'd dropped it immediately.

Too cheap to pay for parking, Bucky volunteers to stay with the car and drive in circles while they get Peggy checked in. Steve gives his shoulder a grateful squeeze as Angie and Peggy clamber out and start removing the luggage.

"Spit into the Thames for me, Carter," Bucky says before someone starts honking at him because he's double-parked with his blinkers on. "Yeah? And so's your old man!" he hollers back out the driver's side window. "Sorry, I gotta move. See you next year!"

"Drive safely, James!" Peggy calls after him—apparently thinking he could stand to hear it one more time.

They're only allowed to take her as far as the security line.

"Guess this is it," Steve says gruffly, though it might just be the lack of sleep putting sand in his throat.

Angie elbows him. "Don't be so morbid. She'll be back before we know it, right?"

"Right," Peggy confirms, painting on a smile.

"Okay. Well…" Steve doesn't seem to know what to do with himself. Reaching out to cup Peggy's jaw, he pulls her towards him and kisses her twice—first on the forehead and then on the lips, quickly. "Bye, Pegs."

"Bye," she whispers, but then she's in Angie's arms, Angie tucking her nose right into the cleft where neck meets shoulder and breathing deep while they hug.

As she pulls back, Peggy leans in and presses a kiss right at the corner of her mouth—like she was aiming for Angie's cheek and missed. Or maybe she was aiming somewhere else.

"I'll tell you when I land," she says, and then she's gone.

Angie knows they should walk away, but neither of them make a step towards leaving until Peggy is through the queue and has disappeared past the line of metal detectors, beyond their sight.

Bucky takes them for pancakes, after. He seems to think they need cheering up.

* * *

Later that day, once Bucky's gotten the car packed so he can start his own journey home for the holidays, he pulls Angie into his bedroom and closes the door behind them.

"You finally making your move, Barnes?" Angie laughs, and he rolls his eyes at her.

"You wish. No, I just wanted to go over the ground rules with you before I left."

"Ground rules? Come on, Bucky, I think I know how to be a good houseguest. I promise I won't have sex in your bed. I won't even eat in it; hand to God," she vows.

"No, not that. For Steve."

"Fine, I won't have sex in Steve's bed either."

" _Angie._ This is important," Bucky says, looking her hard in the eyes. Then he starts listing things on his fingers. "The epipen and his emergency inhaler are in the junk drawer in the kitchen. Don't ask him if he needs the inhaler, because he'll always say no—just grab it if you hear him wheezing. Make sure he eats breakfast, or his morning meds won't work right—he's not dumb enough to skip 'em, but he will try to chug them down with orange juice and call it a meal. He has an alarm that goes off at night to remind him about his migraine pills, but if he's involved in a drawing he'll ignore it, so try to make sure. And you've got to clean the apartment every weekend, especially the bathroom; all that stuff's under the sink, except for the vacuum. That's in the hall closet."

Angie's head reels as she tries to keep it all straight. "Are you serious?"

"Dust and mold are his fuckin' kryptonite. That's why I had to get him out of the dorms; you've seen the mildew colonies that grow in the showers on campus."

"I know, but—"

"He gets embarrassed about it, so when I clean I like to put on some cheesy music and dance around a little. Get him laughing. You don't have to, but… sometimes it can be fun. Also—"

" _Bucky_ ," Angie interrupts, putting her hands on his shoulders. "Okay. I get it."

She can feel the way his muscles relax, the tiniest bit. "Okay. I'll, uh. I'll text you if I think of anything else."

"He's not a child," Angie says as Bucky turns to go, because part of her wonders when anyone last reminded him of that.

He pauses with his hand on the doorknob. "Just take care of him for me, would ya? I'll see you in a few weeks."

He leaves without giving her a hug goodbye, the drama queen.

* * *

"Hey, English!" Angie's voice comes through Peggy's laptop speakers that night, tinny and bright. Peggy watches as Angie settles in next to Steve on the couch, cuddling close to him so they can both stay in frame. "How's home?"

 _You tell me,_ Peggy thinks, but she manages to keep it in. "Jet lag-tastic," she says instead.

"Poor baby," Steve laughs. "What time is it over there, anyway?"

Peggy stifles a yawn. "Just past eleven."

"Well what're you still doing up, then? Go to bed!" Angie orders.

"And miss looking at your beautiful faces?"

"You can look at our faces any time, Peg."

Peggy hums. "That is categorically untrue. For the next several weeks my access to your faces will be strictly rationed. I have to store up when I can."

"She's right," Steve agrees, grave. " _Lackoffaceemia_ can be deadly if not treated properly. Stare at us all you want, Peggy."

It's a taller order than he realizes—she could stare for hours and not scratch the itch. "How are you two faring on your own?"

"Bucky's been gone for hours and we haven't burned the place down yet," Angie brags.

"Impressive."

The talk turns to Bucky's family and then digresses into a long, detailed explication on how Steve usually spends his holidays and then back to Bucky's family and the patented Barnes latke production line, which is where Peggy loses the thread a tiny bit, because unlike Angie she's already heard most of this before, so she's content to just let the conversation wash over her with a couple of "mhms" thrown in.

And maybe to sink a little further into her pillows, because well, she's missed her pillows. And they've probably missed her.

"…and then we all take up floristry and hitch a ride with Buzz Lightyear to the moon. Right Peggy?"

"Yeah," Peggy mumbles. At some point her eyes had drifted shut, and opening them again seems the height of inconvenience.

Distantly, she hears Angie laugh. "Think it's time to let her call it a night, Steve."

"It isn't, I'm not tired. I still want to see your—your—" Peggy yawns. "Your faces."

She's going to open her eyes any moment now.

"You'll see them tomorrow, I promise," Steve says, "We'll call."

Peggy makes a noise from the back of her throat—trying to insist that they stay on for a few more minutes, or maybe to make absolutely certain that they _will_ call tomorrow, but her mouth doesn't want to cooperate, she can't quite get the words out, she's…

She's asleep.

* * *

Steve is quietly working on his Hanukkah present for Bucky later that night when he hears it:

" _Steven Rogers!"_

He winces. He's only ever heard Angie take that tone with bratty freshmen at the L&L, people who came late to rehearsal, and Howard. He can't say he's a fan of being on the receiving end.

"Yes?" He calls.

"You get out here right this instant!"

He sighs and puts away his oil pastels before joining her in the kitchenette. Angie's got their cupboard door pulled wide open, revealing its contents—a good three quarters of which is just ramen packets, in every flavor imaginable.

"Well?" Angie demands. "What do you have to say for yourself?"

Steve tries to square his shoulders; she's making him feel like he should be standing at attention. "Um. That ramen is cheap, and also delicious?"

"Jesus Christ! No wonder you're so sickly all the time; I'm amazed you haven't gotten scurvy!"

"Angie—"

"Don't you Angie me. Go get your scarf; we're walking to Hannaford."

"I'm kind of in the middle of something."

"Too bad. Amount of groceries we're buyin', I'm gonna need your arms to help carry. Then I'm making you a real Italian dinner and getting some meat on those bones."

Steve pouts. "I see how it is. You only want me for my body."

"Just the arms and bones," she corrects, before shooing him back towards his room. "Scarf!"

And, okay, yes. The vegetable ziti thing she makes is amazing, and Steve may or may not have an extra helping or five. But still. He is _not_ quitting ramen cold turkey, no matter how many dirty looks Angie gives the cupboard.

("It's Grant _,_ by the way," he says later, as they do the dishes.

"What?"

"My middle name. For next time you want to _Steven Rogers get out here this instant_ me."

She pinches him in the side. "There won't be a next time, mister.")

* * *

It doesn't take long for them to fall into a routine. Angie, wiped out after a semester's worth of late shifts at the L&L, sleeps like the dead—sometimes late into the afternoon—while Steve draws or sends notes to Sousa on his latest cut of _Bloody Margaret_. Then they Skype with Peggy, Angie cooks, they spend the evenings on their computers and the cycle repeats.

Which is why Steve is surprised to wake on Saturday morning to the sound of golden oldies on the iPod dock, occasionally interrupted by the whirr of the vacuum cleaner. Groaning, he buries his head under his pillow and pretends to fall back asleep for the duration of "Can't Hurry Love," "Big Girls Don't Cry" and "Do You Love Me," but eventually his full bladder and morning breath demand that he make an appearance to the outside world.

He finds Angie in the bathroom, scrubbing the shower in yoga pants and a sports bra while singing along to "The Boy From New York City." If she's going to insist on going full Bucky, at least he can't complain about her choice of attire.

"I can't believe he got to you," Steve sighs in order to make his presence known.

Angie turns and smiles, pulling off her rubber gloves and stepping out of the tub. " _And he's neat,_ " she sings, carding a hand through his messy bedhead, " _and oh so sweet—and just the way he looked at me, he swept me of my feet!"_

"Yeah, yeah," he grumbles, in time to the music in order to make her laugh. "Can I have the bathroom, now?"

"Sure. Don't close the door all the way; I just bleached and I don't want you to die of fumes."

"It'd teach you'n Bucky a lesson, wouldn't it?" he hollers after her as she walks away.

* * *

Peggy's going a bit mad at home.

She falls back into her normal routines easily: sharing a newspaper with Dad over breakfast before he leaves for work every morning; going on shopping trips looking for endearingly specific things with her Mum ("I'm not going to pickle daikon myself when _someone_ in London is already selling pickled daikon, Margaret, that's ridiculous"); teasing Harry while he's home from Oxford, getting teased in return. That's not the problem, really.

It's just that her family is awfully family-like _all the time_. Which of course is nothing to complain about—she feels a bit guilty even thinking it at all, knowing that Angie would probably trade places with her in a heartbeat, and Steve would probably just like to _see_ his mother for the holidays, so.

But then, maybe that's the problem: Steve and Angie are creating a makeshift home for themselves, and Peggy had been a part of it until the end of term, whereupon she'd been cruelly whisked away (of her own volition, but really, not the point). And now she's stuck here on the other side of the Atlantic with a family that is very loving and kind except they're loving and kind _everywhere_ and _every day_ , and forced to restrict her interactions with… certain other parties to Skype calls and Twitter updates.

They're probably doing something outrageously attractive right now, Peggy thinks glumly. Like adopting a shelter's worth of small kittens, or making stuffed animal versions of all their friends, not giving a care to the fact that she is slowly wasting away in her home in London, one peeled potato at a time—"Harrison, if you throw another chip at me I'm going to bury this knife in some place sensitive."

Her brother throws another chip.

He then—quite wisely—runs.

* * *

Living with Steve is amazing.

Like, painfully so.

Angie had known—vaguely, in the back of her head—that living in a single isn't great for her. She's always been happier with people around, and while she values her privacy as much as the next girl, more often than not she finds herself leaving her dorm at all hours to study in the library (and if Steve happens to be shelving, well), or at one of the student centers. She just… needs the contact. Getting it from _Steve_ feels like an embarrassment of riches. Honestly—aside from their ongoing debate about what the resting state for the toilet seat should be, Steve's been the dream roommate. And she's stupid for thinking about it, it's not even the new year yet, but the idea of going back to living alone after this is just…

He comes home on Christmas Eve lugging a tree so pathetic not even Charlie Brown would choose it, grinning like a maniac and swearing her to secrecy, because apparently if Bucky ever finds out Steve brought a Christmas tree past the mezzuzah on the door there will be hell to pay.

"Wanna help me decorate it?" he asks, cheeks still pink from the cold.

She thinks her heart might burst.

She whips up some cocoa—the good kind, made with real milk on the stove and everything—while he gathers supplies and sets them out on the coffee table. Steve, not for nothing, is a hell of a lot artsier than she is, so while his hand-made decorations look like something out Martha Stewart Living, hers look like something a motor skills-challenged toddler brought home from preschool. Eventually she gives up and prints off a bunch of pictures of Judy Garland's face, cuts them out and strings them together with dental floss that… may or may not be Bucky's.

"It's a Garland garland," she says proudly when she finishes, draping it over the fragile tree with care.

Steve laughs so hard he gets a coughing fit, which is alarming but also kind of makes her gloat. Not everyone can get him to do that.

"We need a topper," she says, when they've been at it for about an hour or so, and the tree is more decorations than pine needles.

He grins at her, disappearing into his bedroom and returning moments later with a small photo of Peggy, which he affixes to the apex of the tree with a paper clip. "Stars go up top, right?" he jokes when Angie raises an eyebrow at him.

"You little sneak." She raises her mug of hot chocolate in a toast. "To Bloody Margaret—probably."

"Probably," he agrees, clinking with her.

They post a picture of the tree to Instagram.

Bucky blocks them both.

* * *

On Christmas morning Angie wakes up bright and early (nine o'clock) to the smell of only-slightly-burnt toast and Steve's hesitant smile. "Morning! I made you breakfast."

She smiles back at him before casting a dubious look at the messy tray he puts on her lap. "So I see."

"Hey, _I_ ate it. Promise it's edible."

"I'm not sure if you can count something as edible just because Steve Rogers can eat it," Angie says, but she carefully puts a piece of egg into her mouth anyway.

Steve watches anxiously as she chews. "Well?"

She lets the suspense hang for a second longer before giving him a thumbs up. "Tastes pretty good. You being so nice to me just because it's Christmas?"

"Oh. Um." She narrows her eyes as Steve starts fiddling with a small hole in the front of his shirt. "I mean, yeah! But I maybe also had an ulterior motive."

"Which is?"

"I was wondering if you'd like to come to Mass with me," he says, all in a rush. "I—I know that your family's kind of strict about this stuff so you don't really—and that's totally fine, I'm not really a practicing Catholic either, but y'know. It's Christmas, and obviously we don't have to go to all three, we've missed the midnight one already anyway, so… thing is, Father Lantom is pretty great, so even though the ceremony's kind of boring and the congregation isn't as—"

"Steve," Angie says. "Steve, okay."

"—open-minded as I'd like," he says. "What?"

She giggles a little at his expression. "True, I'm not really into this stuff, and it's a hell of a first date. But you're also right, it's Christmas, and… if you want to go, why not?"

Steve's still staring at her. "I. Really?"

"My mother will be thrilled. But first: presents!" she declares. After a moment she adds, "… and I should probably get dressed."

He nods and leaves, still looking like he can't believe his luck. Thirty seconds later, she hears through her door: "First _date_?"

Angie laughs.

* * *

The tree was too small to put their presents under, so Angie lets out a little huff of surprise when Steve emerges from his bedroom holding a Disney Princess-themed gift bag.

"Don't tell me you're one of those hopeless cases who still needs a parent to wrap their presents," she teases, enjoying the way Steve glares at the accusation.

"I can wrap things just fine," he grumps. "It's just that your present was too floppy to wrap."

"Floppy, huh?" she laughs, taking it from him, but the mirth dies down when she reaches into the bag and pulls out—

"It's a comic book," Steve explains, unnecessarily. She flips through it eagerly, a dozen pages in all of a tiny cartoon version of herself, waiting tables and generally being, well—"Super Angie. Waitress by day, waitress by night. Shutting down assholes with a single super glare."

"Peggy has one of these," Angie mumbles. "I've seen it. Colleen, too. In their living room."

Steve rubs a hand on his neck, looking sheepish. "Yeah. It was kind of my thing, freshman year. And then it occurred to me that you didn't have one, so… I dunno, I'm sorry. I guess it's not very creative, re-gifting after—oh," he laughs when she launches herself into his arms, squeezing tightly. "Okay, hi. Guess you like it."

"I _love_ it," she tells his shoulder, before pulling away and offering him a neatly-wrapped box. "Now you."

Angie watches with twitching lips as he painstakingly removes the paper, trying not to rip it. Her (im)patience pays off, however, when she sees the look on his face as he pulls out the full rainbow set of nail polishes from their box.

"Now I don't have to keep stealing it," he says happily, before looking at her with raised brows, mischief in his eyes. "Dare me to put it on for church?"

She throws a couch cushion at him.

* * *

The outside of the church looks absolutely flawless, and so do the people filing in for Day Mass; Angie takes a deep breath, willing away the creeping sensation that she's back home and time is standing still.

Steve squeezes her hand gently, and then nods to a middle-aged couple nearby. "Didn't think crowns were appropriate accessories for Christmas service. She knows it's not Good Friday, right?"

Angie stifles a laugh—the crown that the lady's wearing _does_ look ridiculous—before her brain catches up to the second part of what Steve said. Then she slaps him on the arm. "Don't be blasphemous on Christmas, Steven Grant Rogers."

"I'm just saying, if she wanted to pick a holiday to channel a crowned Christ, then—"

"You are _horrible_ ," Angie says, snorting so loudly said middle-aged couple throws them a dirty look.

He just grins at her. "Sure am. You ready?"

Another deep breath can't hurt, she thinks. "Yeah."

They make it as far as the top step before she wrenches him back. "Wait, wait, can we—"

Steve immediately looks concerned. "Are you okay? I didn't mean to make you—"

"It's not you," she reassures him. "I'm not… it's just. Can we sit?"

"'Course."

Of course the fancy-schmancy church doesn't have any benches, so they just kind of drop down on the step and get dirt all over their Sunday best. For a while Angie's content to just stay quiet and watch Steve bristle at everyone walking by who looks at them funny, but well, she's the one who decided they should hang out here looking like idiots, so. "The church I went to, in Ohio…" she shrugs miserably. "S'not like anything really bad happened to me there. I mean, every coupla months you'd get the odd sermon that got the wrong kind of political, but still. Wasn't a bad place, everyone mostly thought they were pretty open-minded."

Steve just gives her hand another squeeze, inviting her to continue.

"I think it's just… the air in there, y'know? Everyone giving themselves pats on the back for dressing up, deacons running around frowning at kids, all those mass prayers and 'the Lord be with yous,' constantly hearing that 'love the sinner hate the sin' stuff, and I…"

She frowns distantly at the last group of stragglers hurrying toward the door. One of them—a little girl about nine—trips over her dress and nearly goes sprawling. "I—I want to believe in a _something_ , or maybe I just want to want to believe, but for some reason… whenever I go to Mass all of that just goes somewhere else. And I thought it was just because I was going with my family, but standing here, now—I don't feel it. It doesn't feel right."

When she finally meets Steve's eyes again, he throws an arm over her shoulders. "Okay."

"Okay?"

He nods. "Me too, sometimes. 'Specially when I was small—" Angie makes a face, so he jokingly amends, "small _er._ It always seemed like I was either too distracted or too focused on something that the adults didn't want to talk about. My mom—she's more observant than me, but once she saw how going every week was kind of driving me up the wall we mostly stopped going and she just taught me how to… I don't know, figure faith out by myself. Guess I was pretty lucky, huh?"

Angie chuckles, digging the heels of her hands into her eyes. "Or maybe I was just pretty unlucky. But yeah, I guess I just wish… it's all the structure. I can read catechisms till I go blue in the face and they'll still never feel like _mine_ , you know? And I want—I want… to do things that make me feel like I deserve to believe in it."

Steve makes a soft humming noise before turning to look at the building that looms behind them. "You know, I think you're right," he says, "It doesn't feel right to me today either."

Right now, Angie thinks, the people inside are probably rising for the procession. If she closes her eyes she can hear everyone sound off for the entrance hymn—for Christmas, a carol. She sighs, pulling her knees to her chest. "Sorry I agreed to come and then had a religious crisis."

He laughs. "What, this? You should see the way Bucky's family goes at it during Seder."

She leans into him a little more, and after a moment of silence feels his fingers running gently through her hair. It's… annoyingly relaxing, actually. "So. What's there to do on Christmas for a couple of heathens like us?" she asks, trying to pull herself back to reality.

"Well, hold that thought," Steve says, "You know what you said, about the structure not feeling like yours?"

"Yeah?"

He flashes her a mischievous smile. "I have an idea."

* * *

Boxing Day begins early for Peggy by no fault of hers. At four o'clock in the morning she's startled awake by the incessant chiming that indicates she has a Skype call from one Steve Rogers, so she hauls herself out of bed and answers. "Hello?"

She's treated to the sight of a blank wall and poorly muffled giggling; a second later, Steve and Angie burst into frame, Steve piggybacking on Angie. "Merry Christmas!" he yells, and then, to Angie: "Okay, now down."

"Not anymore, you ridiculous idiot," Peggy says, but feels herself flush. She _has_ missed them.

Angie giggles more as she sets Steve back onto the floor. "I told you. Time difference, 'member?"

He scrunches his face into a passable scowl. "Whatever." Then, to Peggy: "We got you Bushmills, but then we drank it. Will you forgive us?"

Peggy blinks, taking in for the first time that they both seem to be wearing makeshift robes. "That explains...quite a lot. Are you wearing _drapes_?"

Angie nods earnestly. "We tried to go to Mass but on the church steps I said 'It doesn't feel right to me' and then Steve said 'Me neither' and so. We had our _own_ Mass and I read the dirty parts of Song of Solomon instead of the old boring stuff but we needed robes, because we had to be priests."

"I… see."

Steve, meanwhile, is peering intently at a near-empty whiskey bottle. "There's maybe three shots left," he announces. "We'll save _that_ for you."

She snorts. "Don't bother. So—the two of you had fun, then?"

The strange tone to her voice isn't _loneliness_ , she tells herself. That'd be ridiculous; she had a perfectly happy Christmas with her family. More that she feels suddenly a bit left out, like an outsider to their blonde-haired, blue-eyed tribe.

The thought is patently unfair, so she pushes it aside and tunes in again to Angie's enthusiastic description of their day. "—Steve burned the chicken because apparently the only thing he knows how to make is latkes and chickens _aren't_ potatoes, so we had to improvise—"

"Angie ate ramen!" Steve pipes up.

"It was like eating _worms_ ," Angie says, shuddering. "But the soup was okay after I threw some vegetables in it so we had that, and then we painted our nails, and I made hot chocolate with whiskey and peppermint schnapps—not both in the same mug, that would be gross—and we watched Rent, and _then_ —"

She stops abruptly and blushes.

"And then we missed you," Steve fills in. "And now we're here. What were _you_ doing?"

"Sleeping," Peggy says, her chest tightening with something that doesn't feel like being left out at all.

Steve scoffs. "That's boring. We should do something together, like… like…"

"Scrabble!" Angie decides, and Steve nods in enthusiastic agreement. "Let me just grab my laptop and we can hook up an online game…"

"You do realize that I have to be up in three hours to help my family with breakfast," Peggy calls after her, to no avail. "Oh, bugger."

"Better Scrabble than Monopoly," Steve says, beaming at her. "'Sides, we're your family too."

"That's hardly the point," she grumbles.

* * *

"Come on, Peggy, you're taking forever."

"I'm sorry, it's not my fault. This blasted website must be glitching; it's telling me that 'color' isn't a word."

"What? That's weird. Do you want to refresh?" Angie suggests, but then Steve bursts into giggles. "What's so funny?"

"Peggy, you should—" He stops, trying to catch his breath. "You should try taking the 'u' out."

Peggy blinks at her monitor, where she's gotten the error message 'COLOUR is not a valid word entry, please submit a new word' for the fifth time. "Oh, that's just—it was our word first!"

"Sorry, English."

"This is rubbish. If I take out the u I don't even get the double word score."

"Life's hard."

The game ends up taking a good two hours because Angie and Steve are both apparently _inordinately_ cheerful drunks who can't stay focused, and only ends by consensus after Angie spends ten minutes trying to convince the two of them that "dogg" ought to be an acceptable word because "that's how Snoop Dogg spells it," regardless of what the website says.

Still, Peggy can't resist gloating a bit. "Two hundred and forty points. So much for the primacy of the American dialect, hm?"

"We had you on the ropes," Steve mumbles, yawning. "G'night, Peg."

"Not anymore," Peggy says, again, but he's already hung up. She smiles. "Good night, you two."

* * *

Steve wakes up on the couch, back a twisted nightmare and limbs tangled with Angie's. He groans, not so much feeling hungover as feeling like he might still be a little bit buzzed, and tries to get some of the pressure off his spine. Moving, however, only makes Angie cuddle into him more—mumbling in her sleep as she nuzzles his chest. He doesn't remember when they fell asleep.

Angie's hair is a rat's nest of undone curls, she's still wearing her ridiculous fake priest's robe from last night, and in this moment she's so beautiful she takes his breath away. It would be so, _so_ easy to lean in, to gently kiss her awake…

"See something you like?" she asks, eyes still closed.

Steve feels his face heat up, so the natural recourse seems to shift even closer to Angie and downplay. "Eh, you'll do."

"Smooth talker."

"Hrm," he mumbles, eyes drifting shut again. Twisted back or not, Angie is _radiating_ warmth, and he's not really inclined to move any time soon.

He's approaching sleep again when Angie speaks again. "Had a weird dream last night."

"Oh?"

"Yep."

Something in her tone—he's too bleary to figure out what—makes him open his eyes again. "What about?"

She shifts so her face rests against the crook of his neck. He shivers, feeling the thrum of her voice in his skin. "It was… weird. Peggy was a spy and she made you wear this ridiculous costume—the American flag, or something. And together you fought crime."

Steve frowns. "Really? That's… pretty specific."

"I wasn't thinking so much _specific_ as crazy." She pokes absently at his side. "Imagine you hurling this pasty stick body at hardened criminals."

"Hey!" He aims a slap at her hand. "I'll have you know that this pasty stick body has been hurled at plenty of bigger guys."

"Bucky throwing you like a football doesn't count, hon."

Really, the only dignified response to that is another slap, which escalates into a big slap-poke battle until he remembers: "What about you?"

Angie just pokes him again. "What about me?"

"In your dream. You never said—what were you doing?"

"Oh, you know," she says, with a self-deprecating smile, "Waitress by day, waitress by night."

He considers this for a minute. "Huh. Guess you don't need any upgrades to be super."

"Steve," Angie says, laughing incredulously.

"No, I mean it. The way that you're just so—selfless, about everything, and how you get people to be braver and make stuff just… kinder, somehow—that'd stick no matter what job you're working."

"You're still drunk."

" _You're_ still drunk."

"Steve—"

"Nuh-uh," he says, trying to forestall any more incoming skepticism. "I just wrote a whole comic about this, remember? Qualified professional opinion, not up for debate."

Except, he realizes suddenly, Angie doesn't look like she's about to argue. Instead, she's looking at Steve with such a degree of _wonder_ that it makes his whole body go haywire. He's not imagining it, right? The way she's staring at his mouth, the way her own mouth is parted slightly, and her eyes—he feels nine parts like an idiot and one part like a jerk, because Angie's right here in front of him and he _wants_ to kiss her, but Peggy's not here and they still haven't really decided anything, the three of them, and. It would be unfair, he thinks, feeling profoundly miserable. There's really no getting around that.

Still: "You're the best Angie I know," he finishes, and then because if Angie keeps looking at him like that no amount of rationality is going to stop him from kissing her, he thwacks her with a couch cushion.

By the time the ensuing pillow fight draws to a close he's mostly squirreled away the desire to kiss Angie senseless.

Mostly.


	3. Chapter 3

On New Year's Eve Eve Steve and Angie take a bus down to New York, invited to ring in the new year with Bucky at Casa Barnes. Steve spends the ride sketching, while Angie re-reads _A Doll's House_ , which is one of the shows the theater department is putting up in the spring. As far as lead roles go, it's between that and _Major Barbara,_ apparently, and… well, she knows which she'd rather spend a semester thinking about. Having it fresh can't hurt.

When she first sees the city skyline rise in the distance, though, the script almost falls from her hands.

" _Jesus,_ " she whispers softly to herself, all but pressing her nose against the window.

Steve blinks at her. "Ange, have you… is this your first time in New York?"

She nods, only tearing away her gaze from the view when he puts a hand on her shoulder.

"You're gonna love it," he promises.

* * *

 _Casa Barnes,_ it turns out, is not a house at all—it's a three-bedroom apartment taking up the third floor of a Brooklyn brownstone, cramped and home-y. Introductions are a whirlwind of "Oh, no one calls me Winifred and Mrs. Barnes is way too stuffy; just call me Fred, dear," which is fine until Angie meets Bucky's dad _George,_ and thankfully Rebecca and Hannah are used to the joke, because Bucky doesn't find it funny at _all._ Angie is given the choice between bunking with the boys or having the fold-out couch in the living room to herself, because Bucky's sisters already share a room and don't really have space for a third. She opts for Bucky's floor, not wanting to be in anyone's way.

She should have realized it wouldn't matter, because they barely spend any time at all in the apartment for the first twenty-four hours. Apparently the news that it's her inaugural visit to the city traveled fast, and everyone has a different opinion on where to take her and what she needs to see. It's absolutely frigid outside, but they trek all over the boroughs anyway—to museums and restaurants, bookstores and parks—trying to give her the Authentic New York Experience. (She takes lots of pictures. "For Peggy," she insists, when Steve makes fun of her.)

Thankfully, the actual evening of New Year's Eve finds them safe and warm in the apartment. Angie has a newfound awe and fear of the people who go to Times Square to watch the ball drop; having been outside while the sun was out, she doesn't even want to _think_ of how cold it must be in Midtown tonight. Fred and George (yeah, no, she's not going to stop giggling at that any time soon) went out an hour ago to attend some kind of fancy adult party, so now it's just her, Steve and Bucky, Bucky's sisters and their friends with three large pizzas and two bottles of champagne they were supposed to save for midnight.

All in all, it's a far cry from how Angie'd be spending the evening if she'd actually gone home. Dad would have dragged them all to one of his miserable office parties, she and her brothers all starched and pressed and made to answer the same dull questions from the same dull people they do every year. ("So, what are you studying now? … Not much you can do with that in the real world, is there? Are you seeing anyone? You must have to beat off the boys with a stick, pretty thing like you…")

She checks the clock on her phone—quarter after nine. This time last year, she was going seven rounds of thumb war against Matteo to figure out who'd have to play designated driver to their parents, who were already a few gin and tonics into the evening. She'd lost, which—she should have picked Rock, Paper, Scissors, all of her brothers have horrifyingly huge man-thumbs and she'd never stood a chance—and had had to watch, frustratingly sober and so bored she could choke, as everyone else around her got to at least pretend to have fun.

 _This_ year, she's in New York City, surrounded by some of the coolest people on the planet, and Angie has no intention of ever going back to how things were.

Which isn't to say things are perfect. Steve's been a bit down since the Barnses left; they'd said something about his mom that Angie hadn't quite caught while they were talking out the door, and Bucky's been in overdrive trying to distract him, bringing up inside joke after inside joke. They're all smushed together on the couch and in the middle of a spirited and only slightly drunken debate about _Fern Gully_ —which Becca absolutely hates for reasons Angie can't fathom but makes everyone else laugh—when the boys' phones buzz in unison. "Sam found a venue," Bucky tells Steve, having dug out his phone first.

Steve lets out a sigh of relief. "Thank God. After what Howard and Junior pulled last Valentine's Day…"

Angie frowns, shifting so Steve's pointy elbow isn't so dangerously close to her face. "What's up?"

"SHIELD organizes a speed-dating event every year on Valentine's Day," Steve says as he absently taps out what she presumes is a reply to Sam, "You know—'cause it's kind of harder for us to find people who really understand. It's a good way to meet new people even if you're not interested in joining the club. Or…"

He cuts a sudden look at Bucky, who raises his eyebrows in a _oh, we're doing this now?_ before clearing his throat. "Or people who might not be as comfortable coming to SHIELD meetings specifically as they would events for, y'know, us gays in general."

They both look at her like they're expecting _something_ as a response, but for the life of her she can't figure out what. "Oh. That's… nice?"

"We just thought," Steve says as Bucky makes a slightly impatient noise, "That since you're obviously not—I mean, we understand why you might feel unsafe at SHIELD after hearing about Dottie did. But we've put together a whole bunch of safeguards since then, and we were hoping that…"

He trails off again, looking this mixture excited and hesitant that reminds her of a week ago, on Christmas morning. Even Bucky's smiling at her like he wants to say _yes, absolutely_. "Oh," is all she can muster.

She should feel flattered, right? And loved, that they want her in an important part of their lives, that they obviously _rehearsed_ this little proposal for her. She should feel… not like she's being backed into a corner.

"So?" Bucky asks. "What do you think? We've missed you."

And it's not that it isn't nice to hear, but the alarm bells in her head are blaring: _Storm's coming, Auntie Em._ She can get out of this, if she can find the right words. If she downplays it enough, she can make this go away. "I just. I don't think it's a good idea. I've got work, and there'll be auditions, and…"

"We're not asking you to come back forever," Steve says. "It's just one night."

"One night is all it took for Peggy," she hears herself blurt out.

So much for downplaying.

Steve pales. "That's different—"

"How? How is it different?" She's getting loud now, and she can't seem to stop it. "You want me to—after finding out that you've been harboring a sexual _predator_ —come back and pretend everything's fine?"

Becca suddenly bounces to her feet. "Hannah, wanna see the new skirt I got from Anthropologie?"

"No," Hannah replies, staring between Angie, Steve and Bucky with avid interest.

" _Come see my new skirt_ ," Becca insists, grabbing Hannah's wrist. The rest of their friends quickly follow along.

"What the _fuck_ , Angie?" Bucky hisses when they're out of sight, springing to his feet. Steve slides over to fill his space, leaving Angie suddenly bereft. "You think that's a story I want my family knowing about?"

She scoffs. "Well that's a ringing endorsement. 'Come to our Valentine's party! So traumatic, you'll be afraid to tell your family!'"

"Everyone just calm down," Steve says, trying to sound reasonable, but he's the one who started this, and Angie doesn't want to calm down.

"Look, I left SHIELD because I know it makes Peggy uncomfortable, and I wanted to be a good friend, show my support. That hasn't changed."

Bucky's hackles go up even further. "So now we're not good friends?"

Shit, she doesn't want this. "I didn't say that," she insists, while Steve just says " _Buck"_ like that will do anything. It won't. Angie knows there's no stopping this train.

"You did say that," Bucky says, proving her right. "We were actually there when it happened, and we didn't leave SHIELD after she did—"

"Yes, Bucky, thank you _so much_ for reminding me that I'm not really part of your neat little family, but just because you've known Peggy longer doesn't mean—"

"That's _not_ what Bucky meant," Steve says.

"Thanks for translating," Angie spits, unable to resist the insecurity that spikes deep into her chest at the way Steve's hand has gone to Bucky's arm, placating him. Like _he_ needs protecting from _her._ "Wonder what he'd say if you'd let him speak for himself."

"I don't want to fight about this," Steve says. _Too late._

"Well he clearly does!"

"I just don't get what your problem is," Bucky grits out. "It was years ago. Steve and I run the club now, we oversee everything. Howard still comes. Hell, even Colleen shows up to our events."

"Yeah, and _Peggy doesn't._ "

"I think you're being a bit overprotective."

Angie almost laughs "Like you're one to talk? Mr. I Set My Own Alarms To Make Sure Steve Takes His Meds?"

"That has nothing to do with this," Bucky argues. "And Peggy not showing up to SHIELD anymore doesn't mean she doesn't trust us."

"Maybe she shouldn't!" Even as she says it she knows she's crossing a line, but it feels too late to turn back now. And she's _right about this,_ she's sure she is. "I mean, who does that? Who finds out their club is a popular hangout for an attempted rapist and then _stays?"_

Bucky looks taken aback, like maybe he sort of sees her point, but Steve—Steve looks betrayed. Heartbroken.

"And what kind of person would I be if I left?" he asks quietly.

She feels like she can't breathe. "What are you talking about?"

"So you leave. Then what? Nothing's changed. Nothing's been made better. Maybe it's naive of me, but I feel like if you don't stay and try to make a stand, you're letting them win. Sometimes doing the right thing means saying 'I won't let this place belong to you. It's mine; get out.'"

"You're right," Angie says. "It is naive of you. Abusers aren't schoolyard bullies, Steve, they don't pull on your hair to announce themselves. They sneak in like a virus. They're liars and manipulators and they're charming as hell. You told me yourself—if Dottie hadn't tried to push the drugs off as Peggy's idea, you all would have believed her."

"Dottie's been banned—"

"The world is _filled_ with Dotties!" Angie cries. God, she hopes Becca and Hannah can't hear them. "And—if you couldn't even stop her—if you didn't even _notice_ , and she—Peggy is your best friend, and you didn't—" She can't find a way to end this sentence that isn't terrible, but it doesn't seem to matter.

Steve gapes at her. "So I should… what? Just give up because I made _one_ mistake—and thanks, by the way, for really beating that in—and never try to fix it?"

"I'm saying you _can't_ fix this, Steve." She takes a gulp of air, willing herself to stop _yelling_. "There's not a safeguard in the world that can turn back time, and once they're in, they're in to stay. Something like this happens, it's always better to just get out of dodge as fast as you can—"

"Like what you did with Ohio?"

The sudden question hits her in the chest like a two-by-four, and for a minute all she can do is stare.

"What," Angie says. Some part of her dimly registers Bucky standing up and leaving the room, hands raised like he's trying to give them some space, and if _Bucky's_ bowing out, they must have really hit some kind of point of no return. "What—"

"I didn't mean it like—" Steve sighs, running a hand through his hair, "I'm not trying to make you upset, I swear, I just—"

"No," she says, backing away from him and feeling cold all over, "No, you just assumed, right? That I must've been running away from something worth fixing, because I'm not as _high-minded_ and _brave_ as you are—"

"I didn't mean it like that," Steve insists, "I just… you never call them, Angie, you didn't even call them on Christmas, and—you haven't said anything about calling them today—"

Angie barks out a shaky laugh. "They're not worrying over me right now, trust me."

"—and then you say things like that and I just. Sometimes you don't tell us stuff, and you _really_ should."

He's looking at her like she's some kind of device that might explode at any second—or worse, like she's being an unreasonable child, tantruming at nothing. And if that's what he wants, then—fine. "Why?"

He blinks, taken aback. " _Why?"_

"Why should I tell you anything?"

His mouth works for a few seconds, like he's forgotten how to speak. "I—Christ, Angie, so we can _help."_

"Not everything can be helped, Steve. Believe it or not, there are problems in the world that can't be talked through or hugged out. Some things just _are,_ and throwing yourself at them is only going to hurt. And the fact that you clearly have no frame of reference for that is just… it's…"

He doesn't give her enough time to figure out what she's trying to say. "Well maybe I've spent a long time hearing people tell me I can't do things, did you ever think of that? Maybe I'm sick of hearing that I'm too _weak_ or _helpless_ to make a fucking difference."

She throws her hands up in frustration, because that's not what she's talking about at all and she has no idea how to make him listen. "This isn't about your body, okay? It's just—how I deal with my family is none of your business."

"But how I run SHIELD is yours?"

"When you try and invite me back? Yes! I gave you an answer, and you wouldn't take it."

"Excuse me for wanting to spend time with you!" Steve shouts, his face turning into something ugly and unfamiliar. "But I guess that's your pattern, right? You shut people out when they get too close."

She can feel the weight of unshed tears stinging behind her eyes, but she won't cry about this, she _won't._ "And you barge right in whether you're wanted or not, because you're sure you know better than everyone else!" she shouts instead.

"Since when is it a crime to care about people?" he demands, voice cracking.

"It's not, Steve, but you've got to do it on their terms, not yours. You can't just— _force_ yourself on people." She can't stop what comes out of her mouth next, it's on her tongue before she even considers it—"But I guess you can't help it; it's what they teach you in SHIELD, right?"

Steve turns white as a sheet, and Angie suddenly feels like she's going to throw up as she realizes what she's said.

Angie doesn't think about it.

Angie just runs.

She's out the door, down the stairs, and standing on the stoop before she realizes she didn't grab her coat. Hell, she's lucky she has shoes on. The tears that she'd managed to hold back inside fall hard and fast, and she can't believe how thoroughly she's managed to fuck up what had been a wonderful day.

Everything in her says _go._ Get down into the subway where it's warmer, hop a train, and get far, far away from the mess she's made. But no, her MetroCard is in her purse, which is still up in the apartment, just like the coat she's too cowardly to go back for. She starts walking, checking her pockets mechanically for supplies, but the only thing she has on her is… well.

She pulls out her phone with shaking hands, dialing on autopilot.

It rings six times before anyone picks up.

"Angie?"

"Happy New Year," she rasps, trying to keep her voice from wavering. (She amazingly fails.)

Peggy laughs. "Bit late for me and early for you, I'm afraid; when was the last time you looked at a—Angie? Angie, are you crying?"

The phone is vibrating like crazy in Angie's grip—probably Steve calling her, which she's not even remotely prepared to deal with. She shivers. "No, I…"

Yes. There's no point in hiding it; a loud sob bubbles up from her throat.

"What's happened? Are you okay?" Peggy demands, any vestiges of sleep gone from her voice.

"M'fine, I just… _fuck_ …"

"Angie, you're scaring me. I need you to tell me what's going on."

"I screwed up, Peggy, I really screwed up."

The phone buzzes again in Angie's rapidly-numbing grip. Either he left a voicemail or he's texting her, now. Brilliant.

"Are you somewhere safe?" Peggy asks.

Angie looks around at the quiet, snowy street, then down at herself, in her cardigan. For a given definition of _safe_ …

There's a Starbucks around the next corner, she thinks. She can hide out here. "Yeah."

"Did you get hurt?"

"No."

"Please, talk to me."

"I was—we were just talking, everything was going so well. But then they started asking me about—whatever, it's not important. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have called you, I…"

Peggy makes soothing noises on the other end of the line. "It's okay. Slow down. It's okay. Is Steve with you?" Of course, that only makes Angie sob harder.

"I—I—"

"Oh, Angie, I'm sorry. Hush, my darling. It's okay."

But it's not okay. The Starbucks is dark, its door locked, because it's _New Year's Eve_ and everywhere that isn't a bar is closed for business, which she would have realized if she'd used her brain for maybe three seconds. She opens her mouth to try to explain—or maybe just to cry more—but before she can, Steve comes barreling around the corner, clutching her jacket and dressed as though prepared for an Arctic expedition. He almost plows right into her.

For a moment they stand frozen, unable to do anything but stare at each other. It looks like Steve's been crying, too, Angie thinks—the red rim around his eyes makes his irises look impossibly bluer.

"Peg, I—I'll call you back," she mumbles, hanging up even as she can hear Peggy's tinny protests through the speaker. She can't have any distractions if she's going to say this next thing right: "Steve, I didn't mean it."

Hearing her voice seems to snap Steve out of whatever daze he was in, and suddenly his hands are all over her as he wrestles her into the coat and starts marching her back the way they came. "I am _furious_ with you right now. Jesus, Ange, it's freezing outside! You coulda been anywhere, you weren't answering your phone, I thought…" Rather than telling her what he thought, he pulls out his phone and dials. "Bucky, I found her. Yeah, you can—yeah, we're heading back now." Angie just lets him yank her around as his voice washes over her, because Christ, it's been a while since she's been this stupid.

The onslaught continues once they're back inside the brownstone, and it occurs to her that he's not pushing her, he's _hugging_ her—or trying to, anyway. She wants to pull away, but he's warm and she's so, so cold, and he's still ranting at her, only she must not be hearing him right because she thinks he's saying "I'm sorry. God, I'm so sorry."

"But you're mad at me," she points out, feeling like she's missing something.

He huffs, frustrated. "I can't be both?"

Angie sniffles. "You don't have anything to be sorry about. I basically accused you of being a rapist; I'm the one who should be sorry. And I _am,_ Steve, I'm _so_ sorry, I—"

Steve shakes his head. "But it never should have gotten that far. All you were trying to do was stand up for Peggy, I'm the one who made it personal. I know you wouldn't have said it unless I was seriously freaking you out."

"I _screamed_ at you. _And_ Bucky. In the middle of a party you were kind enough to invite me to, and god, now the Barneses probably hate me—"

Steve squeezes her tighter. "Nobody hates you."

"—and you could've been down here this whole time, spending the holidays where you belong, but you stayed at school with me and I was so _selfish_ and…"

"You're not. I shouldn't have said anything, okay? I started this, it was my fault."

"It's just—I didn't want to talk about it, but you kept _pushing,_ and…" She can't help but lean into his embrace, despite herself. "This is a nightmare. I'm so sorry, Steve. I didn't mean it, I swear."

"Angie," Steve says, and it takes her a second to realize the shaking in his chest is laughter. "Eventually one of us is gonna have to let the other one apologize. We're Catholic; we could out-guilt each other all night. And then Bucky will eat up all of the pizza and we'll miss the ball drop."

She nods; lets him pull away from her and wipe at her tears with his thumbs. "I wasn't sure you'd want me to come back," she admits.

"I know. That's why I chased after you."

He looks so earnest. But ten minutes ago they were at each other's throats, and she just… "We're done now, right?" she asks in a small voice.

"No more fighting," he agrees.

Steve starts leading her up the stairs; she can finally feel her fingers again. "I should probably call Peggy back; I think I scared the crap outta her."

"Yeah, well. She's not the only one," Steve says, opening the apartment door long enough for her to pass him before closing it shut behind them.

Becca immediately asks if she can do Angie's nails, which—she figures maybe Steve could use the break from her, so why not? She gives Peggy a quick call to explain everything (in _broad_ terms) while Bucky's sisters paint her toes violet. When Bucky comes back she apologizes to him too, which he's begrudgingly gracious about, and by the time the evening draws to a close it seems like the whole thing's been forgotten.

Angie hasn't forgotten.

* * *

Steve rolls over and punches his pillow for probably the fifth time since he went to bed, the fold-away cot Bucky's mom set up for him doing a number on his back. It's got nothing to do with why he can't sleep—he keeps running through the fight in his head, over and over, trying to find the moment he could have stopped things from derailing—but he wishes he could be comfortable while he broods. If this were last night, he'd at least have the ability to look down and check on Angie, but she'd opted for the living room couch over Bucky's floor tonight… not that he can blame her.

He glances at the clock radio—it's nearing four AM.

Sighing heavily, he pulls off the covers and gets to his feet. He's being stupid. Angie's probably asleep, and even if she's not, he's sure she doesn't want to talk to him. But he still feels unsettled, and he's sick of putting off important conversations with her. This one, he thinks, shouldn't wait.

He pads into the living room by the light of the street lamps through the windows, careful to avoid the squeakier planks in the floor. Angie is curled into a ball on the fold-out, facing away from him. He watches the movement of her shoulder blades, her breathing deep and even, but—well, it's not like she'd be the first person in the world to feign sleep.

"Hey," he whispers, wincing at the way his voice still cuts through the quiet. "You up?"

She turns over without a word, looking up at him with wary eyes.

"Can I, uh…?" he asks, gesturing at her blankets, and at her nod he slips in next to her. He means to keep his distance, let her have whatever space she needs, but her arms wrap around him the second he's in grabbing range, Angie clinging to him like a barnacle. He chooses to take this as a good sign, and takes a deep breath. "We're okay, right?"

"We're always okay, Steve," she responds dutifully. The now-rote answer would bother him if she weren't also entwining their legs and clutching at his shirt like some kind of life buoy.

"I'm so sorry about before."

"I know you are. I am, too."

Cautiously, he reaches up and runs a tentative hand through her hair. She all but melts into him; encouraged, he starts scratching gently at her scalp. _Angie has a thing about hands in her hair,_ he thinks, _check,_ but now's not the time or the place. He takes another deep breath.

"Ange," he ventures, "if I ask you a serious question, will you promise to answer it honestly?"

He can feel her stiffen up. "Yeah," she says after a moment.

"The way you talked about them in SHIELD, I never thought… but you hate calling them, and you didn't want to go back to Ohio for break, and Peggy got worried, and now _I'm_ worried. And what you said tonight, about the world being filled with Dotties and how some things can never be changed and it will only hurt to try…" None of this is a question. "Are you okay at home?"

The three seconds it takes for her to consider her answer nearly kill him. "My parents have never laid a finger on me, if that's what you're asking," she finally says.

He swallows. "There are plenty of ways to hurt people without touching them." After a moment's consideration, he snorts derisively. "I think I proved that tonight."

"Oh, Steve, no. It's not like that," she says, and her frank, almost bored tone makes him inclined to believe her. "Shit, I didn't think I was being so dramatic about it. I never wanted to make you guys worry."

"I know; you never do. So it makes it kind of hard to tell if something's really wrong."

She sighs. "I wasn't trying to be secretive, it just… never felt like something worth discussing. Like, take before, talking about Dottie. Who wants to hear about my stupid problems when Peggy's dealing with something like that?"

"I do," Steve says, with such conviction that he wrings a quiet laugh out of her as she tucks herself more fully into the crook of his neck. "So—if it's not too much to ask—would you tell me about it?"

Out on the street, a siren wails in the distance as she thinks.

"They put you in boxes, is all," she mumbles once the noise is past. Her voice is quieter now, sleepier. "And nothing bad happens if you leave the box, I guess, not really, it's just—there's everyone else in boxes, and they fit just fine and they seem real happy in 'em, and you start to wonder what's wrong with you, that you're the only one the boxes don't work for. And I thought going to college would fix it, but it was just… more of the same. More boxes."

"So you transferred."

"So I transferred. And once you've gotten out of the box, it's just… it's really, really hard to go back in. Even just for a phone call."

Steve hums in understanding. "So your problem is basically Jessie's subplot in Toy Story 2, is what you're telling me."

Angie bats him on the chest. "Now that Sarah McLachlan song is gonna be stuck in my head all night, you jerk." He opens his mouth to respond, but Angie's phone buzzes before he can, lighting up the room. She rolls away from him to check it. "S'Peggy. Guess she just woke up, and now she's like _did I dream that? is Steve being nice? are you okay?_ Bet you got the same."

"What a worrywart."

"Should I text her back?"

"Nah. Then she'll just nag us for still being awake. We'll talk to her in the morning."

Angie settles back into her spot against him; his fingers find their way back into her curls. "I miss her like crazy," Angie admits softly.

"Join the club."

"D'you think… Is it silly of me to think that we wouldn't have fought if she'd been here?"

"Well, I wouldn't have brought up SHIELD with her around, but we probably would've found something else to fight about. We've been getting along so well; we were due."

"That's a nice thought," she says dully.

"No, I mean it. Getting into disagreements is _normal._ I don't want you to think you've got to hold your opinions back to keep the peace all the time, okay? People fight, they make up. But I'm not going anywhere."

Angie hums. "In that case," she says, drawing it out like she's not sure how to say what she wants to say next. "You know you can't… fix… everything, right? I mean, I see how hard you've been working to make SHIELD a safe space, and that's good. Peggy _should_ trust you—you and Bucky both. But it doesn't change the fact that… I mean. Peggy will still never…"

"I know. But… what else am I supposed to do?"

She strokes lightly at his chest with her thumb; he wonders if she can feel the way his heart picks up at the attention. "Some things are too big for just one person. To me, it's like—if I have to choose between saving the world and being there for Peggy, I'm gonna choose Peggy every time."

"But we shouldn't have to choose," he insists, aware of how petulant he sounds.

"Yeah, well. Life's not fair."

He drops a kiss onto the crown of her head, unsure of what to say. The fight's still nagging at him; he can't get the look on her face out of his head. "Listen." He swallows. "About what you said before—"

"Oh god, which bit?"

"About, um. Not being a part of our family." She goes rigid against him, but he plows forward. "I want you to know that—that Bucky doesn't think that. Buck… Bucky knows exactly how much you matter to all of us. And you're so, so important to him."

"Oh yeah?" she snickers, pinching his chest. "I'm important to Bucky, am I?"

"Very," he intones.

"Yeah, well. Tell _Bucky_ I'm pretty stuck on him, too."

Steve feels like his smile could light up the dark.

They quiet, after that. He can feel Angie stifling a yawn against him. "S'nice," she murmurs after a long moment. He assumes she means her hair.

"That's the idea," he chuckles.

"M'gonna fall asleep if you keep that up," she warns.

"Again: kind of the idea, Ange."

"But you should… Mrs. Barnes'll…"

"Fred's used to finding me in places I shouldn't be in this house, believe me."

"Okay," Angie breathes, and he guesses she must have been fighting it off because she's out like a light, after that.

In the morning, they're woken by the flash of Bucky's camera going off as he gathers incriminating evidence. Steve can't complain, really—the pictures of him and Angie snuggling are the only thing that gets the stream of adorably concerned texts from Peggy to finally stop.

Steve saves his favorite one as his lock screen.

* * *

Two days into the new year, Peggy's mother casually asks her, over afternoon tea, if she's been seeing anyone.

This is code, Peggy knows, for _have you started dating Steve yet,_ because as far as her parents are concerned, that's been a statistical certainty for the past eighteen-odd months, if not longer.

This line of inquiry follows a well-established drill by this point: Mum asks, Peggy says no, Mum sighs in a delicate, understanding, yet still _extremely disappointed_ manner (a nuance that Peggy thinks she herself will probably never achieve), and the conversation moves on. Which is why when Mum asks this time and Peggy spends an even minute choking on her tea instead of saying "no," it causes an understandable panic.

"Peggy! What's—Peg, darling, are you alright? Is it that Underwood girl again, did you—Alistair! Come—"

On cue her father strolls in, looking extremely worried; which is to say, he's frowning slightly. "What's wrong, my darling?"

" _Mum_ ," Peggy admonishes, batting away her mother's errant hand. "I'm perfectly fine, really. I was just… I was startled."

Of course that only piques their interest. "Startled?" her father says, raising an eyebrow, "By your mother's routine interrogation?"

"You _are_ seeing Steve now, aren't you?" asks her mother, positively beaming; when Peggy shakes her head, the expression immediately turns back into concern. "Or— _is_ it the Underwood girl again? Darling, your father and I promised to give you some space, but I know you haven't told us everything about—"

"I am _not_ back with Dottie," Peggy snaps, her heart suddenly speeding up. "That's—that's never going to happen."

There's a long pause in which she doesn't look at either of them. Then her father clears his throat. "We trust you, Pigeon, but after your first year, we—well, anybody could tell that you were… ah…"

"It wasn't just heartbreak," her mother picks up, right on cue. "It was—you… whatever happened, and I am not _asking_ , Peg, you'll tell us when you're ready. But whatever happened should have never happened and I—we want to make sure that it will never—we want you…"

"Safe," Dad rumbles, and Mum nods emphatically.

"I know," Peggy says quietly, "I _know_. And I promise that it's nothing like that, I'd never—it's just complicated, is all, but not in a bad way. I just—"

Of course Harry chooses to barge in at that moment, hair sticking on all sides like he'd been running. "What happened? I heard something about 'Underwood'—Peggy, did you—"

" _No_ ," Peggy and her mother say in unison.

"Oh." He exchanges a glance with Peggy, and when she shakes her head again just shrugs. "Who _are_ you shagging, then?"

"Nobody," Peggy tells him very firmly before turning back to her parents. "Absolutely no one. We haven't—Steve—it's _complicated_."

"So Steve is involved?" her father asks, and there goes that eyebrow again. "I thought you said—"

"I said I wasn't—we haven't—stop that!" she says, the last bit addressed to her brother, who has started humming _Get Lucky._ Peggy takes a deep breath, not sure how to end this conversation now that they've locked themselves into the cycle of denial. She doesn't _want_ to lie to them—she's had quite enough of that, thank you—it's just that… for now, there's nothing to tell. Nothing they could understand, at any rate. "Steve is…" she begins, _don't lie, don't lie,_ "encouraging me to explore certain options I hadn't considered before. He's been very supportive, and an invaluable guide, but we aren't dating."

 _Yet,_ she doesn't add.

"Unexplored options?" Dad repeats, sounding intrigued. "You already like boys and girls, what other options are there? Is there someone—Em, what's the phrase?"

"Non-binary, darling," Mum supplies, sipping her tea.

"That's the one. Have you met someone like that?"

"No, Dad," Peggy murmurs, but her heart is full to bursting all the same.

* * *

With all the excitement of the holidays, Angie almost forgets that the reason she stayed behind in the first place hadn't been to have tension of all kinds with Steve.

Which is to say: she _does_ forget, until Steve pokes his head in her room (Bucky's room, _Bucky's room,_ she has to keep reminding herself) one day and says "I'm heading to the campus bookstore. Wanna come? Or you can just give me your list."

Her phone abruptly slides off from where it had been balancing on her nose and clatters onto her forehead. "Ow! I mean. Yes. I mean. The first one."

Steve, to his credit, only laughs at her a tiny bit.

("They have textbooks for Figure Drawing?" she asks as they make their way to campus.

He shakes his head. "Nah, I just need a fresh sketchbook. But I figured you'd need yours for Bio, so…"

Honestly, she doesn't know why she asks him questions. He just turns them into ways to charm her, the jerk.)

In the first week of intersession, Angie almost doesn't see Steve at all. Her Bio class is on a Monday/Wednesday/Friday schedule, and Figure Drawing is on Tuesdays and Thursdays—and both classes go for hours at a time, to make up for the shorter schedule—so it feels like they're always saying goodbye to each other.

On Saturday, at least, they get to hang out… once Angie's done cleaning the apartment, anyway. It's still on the ridiculously domestic side—him clacking away at his laptop while she rereads the first chapter of her textbook for the fifth time, trying to make the information stick—but at least they're together for it. It was her idea, actually: getting everything out of the way so they can _really_ relax tomorrow. Of course, now that she's in the thick of it, it doesn't seem quite so brilliant.

"Oh no," Steve laughs, unexpectedly interrupting the quiet, and Angie looks up from her homework.

"What?"

"I just got what might literally be the most awkward e-mail of my life. Lorraine, our model for class? She got mono and won't be able to keep coming in. And now Brandt's all 'hey, if you have any friends willing to strip naked for work-study credit…'"

Angie puts her notebook down. "You get work-study credit?"

Suddenly, Steve's not laughing. "You're serious?"

"As the grave. I didn't think I'd need to take a J-term class; credit hours are expensive, Rogers. A girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do."

"But you wouldn't be—I mean, that is to say—" Steve swallows thickly. (Whenever he gets like this, Peggy or Howard always say the word 'fondue,' which only makes Steve sputter more. It's an inside joke Angie will never understand, but after nearly five months of friendship she'd like to think she's pretty adept at recognizing fondue-face.)

"I'm a theater kid, Steve, I ain't shy." She strikes her best pin-up pose. "Draw me like one of your French girls."

He gives her his professor's email address, and within hours it's all sorted—she has to drop off some paperwork at the Student Employment Center to make it official, but she'll start Tuesday.

"You sure about this?" he asks again anyway, hours later.

She grins at him. "I've got nothing to hide. So I guess the real question is—are you?"

* * *

Okay, she really, _really_ didn't think this through.

Volunteering to be a nude model—sure, fine. She stands by it. The money's more than decent and it's a fun resume item.

Volunteering to be a nude model in January… slightly less sound logic. She could have planned that better.

Volunteering to be a nude model in January for a class including her sort-of kind-of boyfriend, covered in goosebumps that have nothing to do with how cold it is because Steve keeps _looking_ at her through his lashes, gaze smoldering, before his eyes dart back to the charcoal in his busy, callused hands?

She's an idiot. She's an idiot who doomed herself with stupid _Titanic_ jokes, because she let herself forget: Leo's never been hotter than he was in that art scene, and the way he was looking at Kate can't even hold a candle to the way Steve's looking at her now.

(Honestly—thank the lord there are a dozen other people in this room for her to focus on, because if not she'd be wet by now and that… would probably be really inappropriate for an accredited college course. If she had to guess.)

"Okay everyone," Brandt says, cutting through the quiet symphony of scratching, "let's take five."

Angie breaks her pose with a sigh of relief and stoops to shrug on her robe. "Hey, Professor? Can we turn up the heat a little?"

Behind her, Steve stifles a laugh at her unintended euphemism.

Without turning, she casually flips him the bird.

* * *

Angie's neck should not physically be possible.

Steve has studied anatomy. He has been thinking about this for the past half hour, mentally comparing her neck to all the other necks he's seen before, in class and out of it. And he's pretty sure Angie's neck is just _not allowed._

Granted, he now has other, equally strongly-felt convictions about the rest of her. Hard as he's been trying not to.

He hasn't ever had to struggle like this before—has never been attracted to any of the models in his classes. Which isn't to say they haven't been beautiful, but in the context of the studio, with his charcoal in his hands… he's always been able to turn that part of himself off. To study the human form as a series of interlocking shapes, the three-dimensional poetry of musculature, fat, and bone gorgeous to him in a way that never had anything to do with sex.

But when he looks at Angie's body, he doesn't see a body. He sees _Angie._

He doesn't know why this—this situation, this intersection between Angie and his art—suddenly feels so weird. It's not like he didn't just pour weeks into designing a comic book that was all about her; not like even before that there hadn't been little sketches— quick, intimate ones of her just _working_ , or reading her lines, when he thought he could get away with it. Hell, it's not like he's never imagined Angie naked before this either. But there's just something about her being in this room, laid bare, that…

Angie chooses that moment to twitch and then sneeze, which doesn't help at all. "Sorry? Sorry."

Steve gives her a pained smile before focusing on his easel again, willing himself to work faster.

* * *

Angie manages to tamp down her curiosity for a respectable ten minutes after class is over and she's dressed before aiming a swipe at Steve's sketchbook. "Lemme see."

Instead of doing something more—well, more _normal_ , he stares at her blankly for a full five seconds before giving her a slow smile. "Oh. Um… here."

"That bad?" she jokes before she finds the page and her mouth falls open a little. Angie's no artist—the greatest drawing she's ever done was probably an "Amazing Dogs" poster board for third grade. Still, she can feel a strange intensity just looking at this drawing of her that goes beyond just appreciating anatomical correctness.

"They're not finished yet," Steve says as she flips from one drawing to the next, and Angie feels her face heat up from the sudden shift in the timbre of his voice—like he's showing her his favorite pieces at the Met all over again. "I mean, for class they are, but I thought I could…"

"Oh, I think this one really captures me," she snorts, finding a rough doodle of herself giving him the finger that he must have drawn during their break.

He turns to the next page for her, urging her back to the serious poses. "I think they all do," he says.

Angie stares down at his work again. She's beautiful—he drew her beautiful.

"They're not finished," Steve repeats, tugging the sketchbook gently out of her hands.

"I love them," she tells him, but when all she gets in response is another distracted smile the appreciation is unsettled a little. "Hey, Steve… Was I—I mean, did I do okay?"

He stares at her, confused. "What?"

"I mean. Not that I was—fixated on what you were doing or anything, but your eyes kept kind of doing this shifty thing, a-and I know I'm not supposed to move and I sneezed, and I've never done this—"

"Angie!" Steve grabs her hand and gives it a squeeze. "Angie, you were great, you were—amazing. You don't need to worry."

She blinks at his widening smile. "Oh. Amazing, huh?"

"Or—y'know. Good."

"Because I was wondering, could we put 'amazing' on my business card? Or maybe 'professional muse?'"

Instead of teasing her back, Steve just smiles again and—to her surprise, kisses her on the cheek. "'Professional muse' sounds just fine to me."

* * *

It's a bit ridiculous when Peggy thinks about it—though she and Jarvis both live in London, they don't see each other at all until he invites her on a trip to Stratford-upon-Avon.

"Remind me again," Peggy asks when they meet up at Marylebone, "Why exactly we've decided to do precisely the starry-eyed tourist rubbish we hate to see in others instead of going somewhere more sensible?"

Jarvis brings his steaming mug of tea to his mouth as if to drink before wincing and blowing on it a little more. "I require a sample of Anne Hathaway's mint," he replies primly.

"They're plants that happened to have sprung up on a lot where her garden may have been," Peggy corrects, "Hardly the heir of some great horticultural legacy."

"A team of gardeners painstakingly maintain the site, plants as exquisite as those mints did not just _spring_ _up_ ," Jarvis says, actually puffing up in indignation before meeting her unimpressed gaze. He wilts immediately. "And I did think—given that we belong in a Shakespeare society—that this would be appropriate."

"There's plenty of Shakespeare within reach without having to jump for the nearest tourist trap," Peggy mutters.

"I have every faith that we will not be obnoxious enough to be mistaken for Americans."

"They aren't so bad," Peggy says, utterly without thinking.

Jarvis pauses in the middle of trying to sip his tea again, raising a pointed eyebrow.

"That's—I just mean," she stutters, "Of course as tourists they're usually awful, but in other cases I think… it'd be nicer if London were as enthusiastic and—unconventional."

"Hm. And I suppose you appreciated _America's_ unconventional turn as Viola and Sebastian in our production of _Twelfth Night_?"

She kicks him, scuffing his wingtips on purpose. "How is Budapest this time of year, Edwin?"

Her comment doesn't really evoke a satisfactory response; instead of pouting Jarvis looks absolutely crestfallen. "Well. I wouldn't know, would I?"

Well, the sad and slightly-lost expression on his face is really unfair. Peggy slumps further down next to him on the bench they're sharing. "She _has_ called?"

That at least makes Jarvis brighten a bit. "Absolutely. We Skype and call at least every day, and she sends me the most _lovely_ letters. Still, I… it's not really the same."

Peggy bumps him gently in the shoulder. "No," she agrees, "It really isn't."

Jarvis lets out a slow breath, and then musters up a smile. "At least I didn't need to embark on an overwrought metaphor to express my affection. Of course, nothing in Hungary is worthy of Anna, but—"

She huffs. "See if I ever commiserate with you again."

He just laughs at her, and after a few moments Peggy laughs with him. She _has_ missed Jarvis, ridiculous quirks and all; she's missed Colleen, too, and all of SSR—even perhaps Howard. Before this year, the way she divided her attention among her friends during breaks had been far more… democratic.

"We should do this more often," she says, "Not—go to outrageous lengths just to secure a mint, but maybe… RSC's doing the _Henriad_ , we could catch a show before term starts."

"Shakespeare within reach?" Jarvis asks, still smiling.

"Naturally," she replies, before her phone rings and rather ruins the moment. "Oh, it's Steve. I should probably—"

"By all means," Jarvis says, shifting to a smirk.

"Sod off," she mutters to him before accepting the call. "Steve?"

The voice that answers is breathless and almost panicked. "Peg. Peggy, you've gotta come back _right now_."

"What?" Her mind flashes instantly back to New Year's and Angie's phone call. "What's happened now? Are you two alright?"

" _No_ ," Steve says, before pausing. "What? I mean, yes, we're both—technically fine—but Peggy, it's…"

"Steven Grant Rogers," Peggy threatens, "If you don't clarify what the _hell_ you're talking about this instant, I will go back to the States and shove my foot so far up—"

Beside her, Jarvis gives a polite cough that is definitely a laugh.

"Angie signed up to be a nude model in my Figure Drawing class," Steve gets out all in a rush, "And for some reason I let that happen because I'm an _idiot_ , and now she's—she's—"

It takes Peggy a moment to process what those words actually mean, sure she'd misheard him. But Steve is still sputtering, and Angie is apparently very much indeed a nude model, and Peggy is so envious she could scream.

So she does, a bit.

"You ungrateful _prat!_ Do you think me being all the way across the ocean is a laugh? Why are you calling me to complain about—"

"She sneezed in the middle of a session," he interrupts.

"…Oh no."

"Oh yes. Most adorable thing you've ever seen."

Peggy groans. "She _didn't_."

"Like a kitten," Steve elaborates, "And it was—she's so—I wanna be a gentleman about all of this, Peg, but seriously? Seriously?"

"Well, what do you want me to do?"

"Come back," Steve says, sounding like he's grinding his teeth, "Or—or get her to stop."

"That's like trying to get the Atlantic to dry up," Peggy replies, feeling all kinds of… she doesn't know. Frustrated, jealous, confused? Vaguely pleased that Steve decided that having her back would fix whatever's going on? "I'm going to hang up now."

"But—Peggy—"

"Nope," she interjects, "Whatever—crisis of cute you're arriving at right now, you can handle it yourself. I've got another engagement, _thankyouverymuch_."

Steve sputters more, but before he can summon up anything coherent Peggy ends the call. Jarvis is still smirking terribly, so she pushes any thoughts of Steve and Angie (or _naked_ Angie) away for the moment and smirks back. "So. Where were we?"

* * *

Routine falls once again upon Angie and Steve, without their realizing. Angie can no longer sleep late, and Steve no longer finds himself compelled to sketch—his arm and wrist often sore after class, his creative juices run dry—but beyond that, their weeks are just as predictable and familiar as before. Steve still isn't half the cook Angie is, but he tries to take care of her on the days when she comes home from Bio and marches straight into Bucky's room, intent on finishing her homework by night's end so it's _gone_ and _done._ He makes sandwiches, mostly, or the occasional Amy's frozen dinner, when he doesn't have the energy. And when her lack of procrastination pays off and they find themselves with whole days spread before them, they Skype Peggy and watch season after season of _America's Next Top Model._

It's easy to pretend things will be like this forever, so they do.

* * *

"I do hope you think of me, when you're together," Peggy says. It's late for her—nearing 2am—and she's just punchy enough that the question no longer seems forward. They've been talking for hours, Angie sitting on Steve's lap to stay in frame, as has been her custom lately. Peggy didn't notice when they stopped sitting side by side; she feels as though she should have.

Angie gives her a tender look—purposefully, dragging her eyes up to the camera instead of at the screen. Doing her best to look Peggy in the eye, across an ocean. "Of course, English. You're our missing Musketeer."

Peggy knows it's foolish to ask, that even the best case scenario will just leave her sexually frustrated, but—"What's it like?"

"A little repetitive, actually," Steve says with a laugh. "I think we're starting to get cabin fever with just the two of us."

Peggy smiles, catching his drift. "Perhaps you need a third, then."

"I've been sayin' that for days. I think Howard's back in town by now; we should invite him over," Angie says, turning to address that last to Steve.

Peggy's jaw drops. "I beg your pardon?"

"I don't have the spoons for Howard," Steve argues. "I'd rather just wait for Bucky."

"Now, really—"

"Sorry, Pegs," Angie says, clearly amused at how worked up she's getting, "But you can't expect us to ignore every other option until you get back to the States."

"And why on earth not?"

"Hold on," Steve says, brow furrowed. "Peggy, what are you talking about?"

"Being your— _third Musketeer._ What are _you_ talking about?!"

"I—oh my god. Peggy, nothing's happened between us. Is that what this is about?"

Peggy looks back and forth at the two faces on her computer screen, reading the baffled embarrassment there like a book. "Do you honestly mean to tell me," she says slowly, already knowing it to be true, "that you have been drawing Angie in the nude for over a fortnight, now, and you've not—you haven't—?"

"Of course not!" Angie says, turning red as she climbs off Steve, like she's trying to prove the point.

"We'd never, Peg. Not without you," Steve agrees.

"Good lord," Peggy stutters, flattered and flustered and, honestly, a little bit annoyed. "Have you even _kissed?"_

Their guilty looks answer the question for her. Merciful heavens, does she have to do everything around here?

"That's it. I'm taking charge. The two of you are kissing, right now."

"English, you can't just—"

"Oh yes I can. Steve?"

Steve, thankfully, is already on it, lifting up a hand to turn Angie towards him.

Obviously there's no way to truly measure it, but Peggy is pretty sure she can see the exact moment that the two of them forget they're being watched. The pad of Steve's thumb comes up to brush against Angie's cheek, her lips part slightly as he pushes his hand back to tangle his fingers in her hair, and—there it is. Pure, unselfconscious connection, right before they meet.

Peggy watches greedily as one kiss becomes two, then three.

"Enjoying the view?" Angie finally asks, smirking against Steve's mouth. "We can hear you breathing, you know."

"Yeah Peg, stop breathing so loud," Steve adds.

"Oh, hang up already and enjoy yourselves," Peggy grumbles, not feeling rejected in the slightest when they listen to her orders.

She has some things she'd like to handle privately, anyway.

* * *

The next day, Angie shows up to Figure Drawing with an unmistakable hickey on her clavicle. Steve had assumed she was going to cover it up with concealer or something, but instead she accepts the catcalls from the guys, the giggles and high-fives from the girls with a savage sort of smugness, and she doesn't look at Steve for the entire duration of class, not once.

(They don't even make it back to the apartment, after. She backs him up into an empty classroom and makes out with him until he can't see straight, then takes a selfie of the two of them—kiss-dizzy and rumpled—and texts it to Peggy.

They get a string of angry emojis in response.)

* * *

The problem with being given permission to kiss Angie is that now Steve has a hard time convincing himself it's worthwhile to do things that _aren't_ kissing Angie.

He hadn't had this problem with Peggy—but then, circumstances had been different. They were worried about pushing Angie away, and then the semester was basically over and he had to shove her on a plane. Angie, however, is _here_ —distractingly so. Frowning adorably as she does her homework on the couch; chopping, grating and stirring with confident hands in the kitchen; dancing around in her sports bra cleaning the apartment every weekend, smirking at him as she sings along to whatever bouncy classic she's got playing.

It's not like she minds him kissing her in these moments—or at least, he hasn't heard any complaints—but god, it's distracting as hell.

It would be one thing if it were any easier on the days when she has class and he's got the apartment to himself, but… even before the other night, he'd tended to spend those afternoons napping in the living room.

If… by napping… you mean laying on the couch with a hand in his shorts, thinking about the girls.

Now that he's tasted both—now that he knows the way Peggy's breathing speeds up when she watches him touch Angie, now that he's intimately familiar with every inch of Angie's naked body thanks to Figure Drawing—he pretty much depends on these hours of privacy if he expects to be any company to Angie at all when she's actually around, instead of a hormonal mess.

Which would be fine, you know, if Angie's professor didn't let her out early on Monday afternoon.

He hears her key in the lock, but there isn't enough time, he can't—

"Steve? I'm— _eep!_ " Angie yelps, letting out a few more squeaky noises as she slams the door closed again, hiding herself in the hallway. After a few moments, he hears her add "…I'm home," meekly through the door.

He groans, head falling back against the armrest in shame. "I noticed."

"I'm just—I'm gonna—I think I'll take a walk around the block," she stutters.

"Sounds good," he says, voice strangled.

She doesn't come back for a half hour, which would be considerate if it weren't mortifying. They don't talk about it, thank god, but he can see the way she keeps looking at him out of the corner of her eye.

(That night, he dreams that instead of leaving she'd opened the door again, biting her lip, face nervous but hungry. "You know," Dream Angie says, "If you want, I could help you with that…"

He wakes up hard, aching for a hand that isn't his own.)

* * *

Peggy lays on the couch in the sitting room, listlessly scrolling on her phone through all the pictures Steve and Angie have sent her since she left—the sheer volume of which has become so great they've earned their own folder in her photo app—trying not to feel sorry for herself. The end of break is _finally_ in sight, she'll be back within the week, but… it's been hard, having to watch from a distance.

"Whoa, Steve and Angie are dating?"

Peggy nearly falls off the sofa, she startles so badly at the sound of Harry's voice behind her. "Bloody hell! Where did you come from?" she demands, clutching a hand to her heart.

He shrugs, vaulting himself over the back of the couch to sit next to her. "Same place as you; Mum's womb."

"I should get you a collar with a bell on it."

"You'd have heard me if you weren't brooding," he says, with an insufferable smile. He nods to her phone. "How long has that been going on?"

"It's… quite new," she says, honestly still adjusting to the fact that the name _Angie_ came out of his mouth. It's not like they've never spoken about her, and he follows Peggy on every social account she has, so of course he knows what Angie looks like, but… it's the first time he's said her name in Peggy's presence, like she's just a normal, casual part of Peggy's life, and the fact that he did so while pointing out something that is both completely true and utterly false is… a lot to take in.

He makes a sympathetic face. "I'm sorry, Pegs."

"What on earth for?"

"I really thought you'd have snatched one of them up by now. Guess they got tired of waiting and snatched up each other."

Though she knows she should be uncomfortable at how close he's getting to the truth, Peggy finds herself rather touched at her brother's thoughtfulness. "Yes, well. I'll find a way to survive. Don't tell Mum, alright? She'll be heartbroken."

"Sure. _Mum_ will," he sighs, before getting up patting her awkwardly on the upper arm. "Chin up, shoulders back—that's the Carter way. I'm sure you'll find someone, eh? Plenty of fish and all that."

"I'll try not to waste away," she calls to his retreating back.

He laughs. "That's the spirit!"

* * *

It's harder than Steve thought it would be, moving Angie back into the dorms.

Physically transporting her and her stuff isn't the problem, even if she does give him a heartbreaking look before he goes—like she's a puppy he's been visiting at the pound and now he's leaving without adopting her. But then the face falls away and she beams at him, like it's all just play-acting, and he lets her think he believes it.

But the ghost of her follows him around for days afterwards. He finds himself making trip after trip back to campus—because she left behind her iPod charger, or Bucky found her hairbrush on his dresser, or one of her socks ended up in Steve's laundry. Steve doesn't mind running these errands; he kind of likes the fact that she'd felt comfortable enough to sprawl.

It's the things he can't give back to her that get to him. The plastic cup she'd been using at the bathroom sink; strand upon strand of coppery hair sticking to the couches, clinging to his clothes, tickling the insides of his elbows like she has the power to tease him across time and space.

Bucky, when he cleans, does it to The Strokes—and he keeps his shirt on.

It's what Steve's used to, but it's no longer the same.

* * *

Peggy's not apprehensive on the ride back to the States, she's _not_ ; the strange mounting compulsion to throw up is because of the turbulence and nothing more.

If she _were_ feeling nervous, though, it'd be because there's really no—protocol, really, for how to greet two people who you very much want to snog, one of whom you _have_ kissed quite thoroughly and one of whom you _haven't_ , particularly if the two of them have also in the mean time kissed each other thoroughly, and often.

In front of you, at your own insistence.

No, there's no code of conduct for that at all.

It occurs to Peggy suddenly, as she guzzles down yet another cup of ginger ale, that what she's feeling might not be so much apprehension as it is _insanity_.

The plane touches down in what feels like no time at all, only the trek back through customs and across the airport makes up for it—queues upon queues. Finally Peggy gets past security and down the final escalator, and Angie's _there_ , in flannel pajama pants and what looks like one of Steve's T-shirts with the words _WELCOME HOME, PEGGY_ written on in glittery puff paint. Peggy starts running.

"English!" is all Angie has time to squeal out before Peggy decides _oh, to hell with it_ and kisses her full on the lips.

Angie's startled laugh turns into something softer as she kisses back without hesitation, cupping Peggy's cheek with one hand while her free arm winds around Peggy's waist and _honestly_ , why had they waited so long, again? Angie kisses the same way she does everything else—enthusiastically, tenderly, thoughtfully. Peggy gets lost in it, hearing a distant _thud_ that she belatedly realizes was her luggage hitting the floor. No matter. She wasn't carrying anything fragile… she thinks… or…?

"Aw man," a voice says from behind them, and when Peggy breaks the kiss and turns there's Steve, wearing a shirt just like Angie's. "I missed it."

Angie punches him lightly on the arm. "Told you not to take that bathroom break."

Peggy laughs, throwing her arms around both of them at the same time. "Hello, my darlings."


End file.
